


Who Caught and Sang the Sun

by Slantedlight (BySlantedlight)



Series: Older Lads [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 62,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySlantedlight/pseuds/Slantedlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lads are all grown up and in charge of CI5, but they're also having to deal with the modern-day world.  CI5 is still CI5, the villains are still the villains - and it's all about what's on the telly...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Caught and Sang the Sun

**Chapter One**

"...as provided for in _Part Three of the Anti-Terrorism, Crime and Security Act, 2001_ , which has _proven to be incompatible with_ the European Convention on Human Rights, as Mr Doyle was well aware. Nevertheless, he proceeded with the detention and extended interrogation of Peter Merrick, which led to vital assets, both private and corporate, being frozen..."

Doyle shifted restlessly in his seat, tried not to let the brain-numbing words override the importance of their consequences, and even more importantly tried to look attentive to the Counsel to the Inquiry. What did they want, another bloody Lyell debacle? Christ, he wished it were Bodie sitting here, outwardly calm and impassive in front of it all, because he still made a lousy job of keeping his temper in check, and it was going to be all he could do to be civil...

"...although there are questions remaining - and which can only be answered _in camera_ in any event - the evidence presented strongly suggests that in this case CI5 misjudged their special remit to act in the interests of country over individual, and..."

He let himself shake his head at that, just a little, a bare movement against the stuffy air of the boardroom, closed his eyes and took a breath. He could feel the beginnings of a headache over one eye, and he wanted nothing more than to get outside, to take a deep breath of fresh air, car fumes and London fug and all, or even better find some petty villain on whom he could take out his frustrations. 

Sayyed and Johnson had that little toerag _Frankie J_ bang to rights in interrogation right now, and he imagined for a moment, just a moment, being able to walk in and smile at him, being able to send Johnson off to fetch the rubber gloves and _Spark's box of tricks_... Or even better, in Frankie's case, a nice shiny syringe full of the highest grade heroin they had in the vaults. He wanted to see fear on the face of just one villain today, just one bully who thought that he had a right to the power he'd bought with a gun, or with drugs, or with a surplus of money and contacts.

But there was Merrick on the other side of the room, surrounded by the best lawyers his tainted millions could buy, backed by his friends in government on either side of the ocean, and smiling smugly to himself as he listened to the closing speech of the inquiry. Eight months, and three long years of work before this - the death of not one but _two_ good agents when their cover had been blown by persons _still_ unknown, and Peter fucking Merrick was sitting there with a grin on his face.

He took a deeper breath. It wouldn't help anything to appear uncompromising now, but he swore - _swore_ on the life of everything precious to him – that it wouldn't be over, no matter what the Lord Justice decided in his final report, until those responsible had been caught and, more importantly, _made to pay_.

Doyle stood, as everyone else stood, when the members of the tribunal finally made their way from the bench, and the room slowly deflated from officialdom to murmurs about the evening traffic and the best place to find a decent glass of wine before the long commute home. He was aware of Salma waiting patiently beside him as he automatically scanned the room for signs of anyone who might prove impatient enough to want his attention _now_ , but he didn't feel up to being polite just yet, not even, he realised, to her. He'd had enough.

"Why don't you get yourself home, Sal - it's been a long day and there's nothing here that can't wait until the morning."

"If you're sure - do you need a lift back to..?"

"No," he turned them both towards the doorway, tried not to sound too brusque, deciding to risk the melee to escape early over the possibility that he'd be caught by one or other minor politician or _investigative_ hack in the hallway. Maybe he could vanish out the back door under guise of finding the Gents. "I think I'll walk it - We're not too far from my place, here."

"Alright - it'll be nice to see the kids before their dinnertime for a change. Peri said she'd forgotten I had long hair, the other night. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight..."

It hadn't been a reproof, he knew that. Salma was as dedicated to her job as he was to his, and she was good at it, everything you could want in a P.A. - but a five forty-five finish shouldn't be considered early by anyone's standards. He'd do better by her, he promised again, yet again, as he was finally released from the stream of people and found himself able to stride away down a brightly lit but empty corridor to the smaller side exit and onto the street. 

No one, it seemed, wanted to talk to the head of a department on the verge of public disgrace.

He paused at the gate to the building, nodding to the man on security and glancing up at the sky. It was dark, it seemed as if it was always dark when he wasn't cooped up somewhere indoors, but it was clear and mild and probably worth the walk home if it meant he didn't take things out on Bodie when he got there. _If_ Bodie was home himself yet. As if on cue, his mobile vibrated at him, and he switched his briefcase to his left hand, dug into his trouser pocket to retrieve it, and set off.

"What d'you want?" he asked, letting his heart lighten for just a moment. Bodie'd either heard about the summing up already, or he'd want to talk about it, but for just a moment...

"Spag bog for dinner, what d'you reckon?"

"Great, if you're offering to cook it."

"Glad you said that, it's already in the pan. Garlic bread, a bottle of that Chianti you liked..."

He knew it. "You've talked to Salma."

"She rang in to check up on the girls, they forwarded her onto me. As per instructions."

"You know, if you keep calling Rafe and Simon _the girls_ they're going to stop bringing you the decent coffee."

"Ah, they don't mind - Rafe's got designs on my body anyway. You on your way back?"

Bodie was going for distraction, then - good.

"About forty minutes?" He paused at the crossroads, then dodged two taxis and a bus to get to the other side rather than wait for the lights to change. "Anything decent on the box tonight?"

"Not unless you fancy _Ready, Steady, Cook_."

Oh Christ... "Pull out one of those dvds we've been trying to watch for months, eh? I feel like a night off."

"You know if it's a night off you fancy maybe I'll pull something else out..."

Doyle grinned. "Watch yourself, 3.7, you might bite off more than you can chew."

"I don't know what you mean, 4.5." He could hear Bodie's own smile over the airwaves, between satellites, across space. "Spag bog it is then - see you in a bit."

"Yeah, see you." He flipped his phone shut, found himself still smiling as he walked - that was better, fresh air and the real world, he just had to remember that there was a real world out there. He wasn't George Cowley - neither of them were, though he wasn't sure that anyone was better off for that fact - and the one thing he'd promised himself – and Bodie - he would _not_ do was worry so much about the job that he died alone of a heart attack still sitting at his desk. 

No, he wasn't George Cowley, and he had someone to go home _to_. On the spur of the moment he ducked inside a newsagent's, blinking a little at the brash yellow light, and bought a block of Dairy Milk for while they were watching the film. It was daft, he knew it was daft, they were getting too old for indulgences, but Bodie liked it, and sometimes you should have what you liked, shouldn't you? 

There was nothing he could do about the case tonight anyway, he thought philosophically, as he strode along the increasingly busy pavements. Merrick was off the hook - for now - but they'd get him, he'd slip up again, just as he had this time. And if they were _very_ good, they'd manage to find a very public way for him to do it. There were so many possibilities really, especially with the way today's media worked...

A wind gusted along the street and pulled at his hair just as he turned to cut through Holland Park, rustling the bare branches of the trees above him, a sigh through the night. Despite himself he realised he'd been listing the jobs for tomorrow in his head, prioritising and re-prioritising them. None of them were pleasant - particularly their scheduled meeting with the Minister, particularly after today - but they were necessary, so very necessary. They'd get through them, him and Bodie. 

He turned the last corner, passed Bodie's Merc, parked close to the kerb, and there was his front door at last, a yellow glow of electricity escaping around the windows to either side, softening the curtains to a deep pink, and another, brighter and more solid square, shining from the window above the door itself. He fished for keys, feeling his shoulders loosen just a little more, his brow and his cheeks and his mouth relax, opened the door and paused on the other side, listening. Music in the kitchen - at least it wasn't Radio One now that Christmas was over - endless bloody _Band Aid_ , and Kylie Minogue, although at least she could _sing_...

A richness of garlic and tomatoes and Bodie's good bolognese sauce suffused the warmth of the hallway, and he heeled off his shoes and kicked them under the hall table, hung up his coat and his jacket, dropped his briefcase by the wall, and left the inquiry there with them. The floor was smooth under his freed toes, and he took the corridor with a few steps running , then slid the rest of the way to the kitchen door at the end. 

"Alright?" Bodie asked, turning, wooden spoon half-raised to his lips over a pan at the cooker. "Taste this, see if it needs more salt."

Doyle grinned and padded over, glancing at the table where Bodie'd already got out plates and cutlery, snagging one of the two glasses of red wine that had been poured, were darkly, deeply waiting. "Never needs more salt."

"Salt's good for you – puts hair on your chest."

"Sends you to your grave early," Doyle countered without hope it would make any difference. It was an old argument, familiar and comfortable. 

"Ah, never mind – I'll come back and haunt you."

"You would an' all, just when I think I might get some peace." He stepped close and leaned in, balancing himself with a hand on Bodie's back, let Bodie aim the wooden spoon at his mouth, blew quickly on the sauce, and tried it. "Perfect. Is that chilli?"

"Just a pinch. Before I forget, did Viv tell you that Type 05 came in this morning?"

"What, from China? How's it look?"

"By way of a few other places, yeah," Bodie grinned over at him, looking every bit a kid with a new toy. "Find out tomorrow, got the lads testing it."

"You mean you've not claimed that for yourself?"

"Seen one sub-machine gun, you've seen 'em all." Bodie paused, glanced up at him, "Actually I was going to, but um…"

"Oh god, what?" Bodie had that look about him, he'd ducked his head slightly, was looking up at him from under his eyelashes, and there was a certain twist to his lips.

"Salma rang again while you were on your way home. The Minister's moved our meeting up to nine."

"Oh, shit."

"That's what I said, Sal told me to mind my language."

"Well," Doyle said philosophically, "There's nothing anyone can do about it. Merrick's almost certainly got off scot free, and we'll get a rap over the knuckles, but it's not as if they can close us down, not at this stage of the game."

"They could try and curtail us – like that Mather woman did with Cowley, d'you remember?."

Doyle looked at him, he remembered all too well. "In this climate? They'd be fools. Yeah alright," he said, as Bodie raised an eyebrow at him, "Point taken. We got more wine in?"

"Enough to sink a ship of Ministers. Hurry up, the pasta'll be done."

Doyle gave him a quick pat on the back, and headed upstairs to get changed. He supposed they'd get a rollicking and told – yet again – to be more careful with the rich and influential, no matter what prats they were. He'd worry about it tomorrow, but for now, he reminded himself – dinner and a slow night on the settee, that was what he was aiming for, and then – he eyed the rumpled bed speculatively, paused to pull the duvet straight and plump out the pillows – maybe an early and a slow night in bed, too. _Yeah…_

He pulled a t-shirt from the dresser, and yesterday's jeans from the chair by the window, hung his suit trousers on the coathanger swinging from the wardrobe doorknob, and scooped up one of Bodie's fisherman's jumpers, tugged it over his head. It smelled of Bodie's aftershave, and a dozen memories, and that was just what he wanted as well.

By the time he was downstairs again, dinner was on the table in front of the tv, and Bodie was topping up their glasses. Doyle let himself drop to the settee, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment, then sat up and reached for his wine. Bodie flicked the television on, and they let the Channel Four news surf past them as they ate – old news, most of it, to them, but better, as Bodie said, than Emmerdale or anything with Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen in it. Fires in Australia, mudslides in California, and the tsunami clean-up continued.

"What d'you drag out of the cupboard then?" Doyle asked at last, his plate scraped clean.

" _Shaun of the Dead_ , _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , or _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ …"

"Oh my gawd…"

"…or there's that video of _Green Wing_ that Claire gave you and told you to watch because her nephew's in it."

"Anything," he decided, "I'll fall asleep in front of it anyway after all that lot."

Bodie got up, opened a box apparently at random, and slid a disc into the player. Doyle let him sit down, then half-lay, half-sprawled across both the settee and Bodie. He'd just got comfortable and closed his eyes when jaunty music poured forth around them, and he looked first at the screen, then at Bodie in amusement. "Costume drama?"

"Yeah," Bodie said, "But look at those leather boots – thigh-high, they are. Get you some, shall I?"

"You dare…"

"Well, be your birthday soon – fifty five this year…"

"Thank you, Eamon Andrews."

"Ah, but you don't look a day over twenty eight," Bodie grinned, leaned down and kissed him. Doyle enjoyed it, the taste of garlic and tomato, of Bodie's mouth and his tongue, and the feel of his hands holding Doyle firmly pressed against him.

"Sweet talker," Doyle said, when he was released, "What d'you want…" The penny dropped. "Oh no. No, Bodie I don't want a party."

"Oh come on, fifty five – it's one of the big ones!"

"You'd say that about fourteen a half…"

"Yeah I would, but this is fifty five! You've got to have a party for fifty five…"

"Alright then," Doyle said abruptly, and enjoyed the look of surprise on Bodie's face. "Yeah, I suppose I could survive a party…"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah – you, me, a weekend away somewhere with a bit of sun and a lot of privacy… Have our own party."

"Why, you dirty old man…"

"Oi, you're not so far behind me, you know – less of the _old_!"

"You're going grey."

"I was going grey when I was twenty eight – not long after I met you, that was." He grinned. "Anyway, I'm salt and pepper, I am. You're _grey_ …"

"Ah, but very dark grey, practically black still…"

"Good job you've kept your figure, thassall I can say," Doyle continued, sliding his fingers up Bodie's wrists in readiness. He was too slow though, his clutching hands sliding from skin as Bodie shoved him off the settee and onto the carpet before he could grasp him properly, so that he found himself trapped by furniture in two directions, and between the floor and Bodie's solid length in the other two. He closed his eyes and thrust his hips upwards, opened his mouth when Bodie's lips found his, and didn't mind that he moaned slightly when he felt Bodie's cock hard against his own through their trousers. In the background swords clashed, and somewhere the minister might be working up a head of fury, but he was here now, with his _someone to come home to_ and for just this moment, this night, he couldn’t find it in him to care about anything else.

 

**Chapter Two**

Their morning dawned dark as night, and Bodie groaned into the duvet as the alarm went off, letting Doyle fumble for it as he always did, burrowing away from the noise, and from what sounded like a blustering gale against the window outside. It was warm in here, and comfortable, and… He let himself drift, the snooze would go off in a minute, if Doyle didn't get up first, and _then_ he'd make an effort. Nothing to look forward to today, not now that he'd had to hand the Type 05 to Webster and Field to test. He'd…

"Oh, bollocks."

"Yours or mine?" Doyle asked beside him, voice muffled by sleep and Bodie's own shoulder.

"Ours, probably…"

"The Minister," he said, as Doyle groaned out just the same thing, and so he pinched him lazily. "Jinx."

"Child."

He didn't feel like a child, he felt about seventy eight and decrepit, not ready to face a day of politics and power at all. Or maybe he did feel like a child, one who knew there was a big telling off due from the headmaster.

"D'you ever have to wait outside the head's door?" he asked Doyle, and felt Doyle's chuckle vibrate through him as much as he heard it. 

"They threatened to move me desk there once," Doyle said reminiscently, "I was a right pain when I was a kid."

"You're a right pain now," Bodie reminded him, not caring that it was predictable. "Make it up to me by getting us a coffee"?

"Lazy sod…" But Doyle tumbled himself out of bed, turning the bedside lamp on, and Bodie made the effort to open his eyes and watch him reach, naked, for the bathrobe that hung on the bedroom door. He thought back to the previous night. He was still in good shape, was Doyle, all these years later, grey hair or not, broad shoulders, nice muscles, _very_ nice arse… 

He stretched against the mattress, scratched, and awake now, he dragged himself into the bathroom for a shower and shave. By the time he was dressed and downstairs there was coffee in his cup, toast _and_ bacon on his plate, and Doyle was deep in _The Guardian_.

"Special occasion?" he asked, piling things happily together and smothering them in tomato sauce to make a sarnie. 

Doyle looked up and twinkled at him, reminiscently, Bodie thought, but all he said was "Keep our strength up for this morning." 

"Oh, it'll be fine, like you said – what can he do other than tell us off?"

"That was last night, when I was knackered and mellow. I've been making a list since then."

Doyle worried too much. "I'll bet you have. Chill. We still on for the firing range this afternoon?" 

"Got it booked for three. Swim first?"

Bodie nodded, chewing. Training was the one thing that kept him sane when he was stuck at a desk half the day. Well… he watched as Doyle leaned back and twisted around in his chair to reach the butter on the side counter, pulling his shirt tight around his waist and outlining his chest, the muscles in his arm. Maybe there were two things…

Salma called, before they were even out the door, to remind them of this appointment and that cancellation, and for a moment he was almost grateful to the Minister – having to cancel a cultural attache from Betan in order to move their meeting up the list meant that they'd have an extra hour or so later in the morning – either Salma hadn't noticed, or she was feeling merciful for a change.

They took Doyle's old Triumph to work, and Doyle dodged happily into spaces that bigger cars couldn't manage, cursing suicidal bicycle couriers and the drivers of SUVs in the same breath. 

"You don't fancy one of those giant pick up trucks for the weekends, then?" Bodie asked, and was unsurprised when Doyle launched into an explanation of exactly why he wouldn't. He waited until they'd stopped at the next lights, turned his head to look at him, and grinned.

Doyle glared at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes and grinned back. "Bastard."

"Well, can't have you saving all that British _phlegm_ for the Minister now, can we?" 

" _British phlegm?_ " Doyle repeated, "Go on, bet you can't get that into the meeting..." 

"With the Minister? Right then!" he rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Easy peasy."

Doyle turned them into the car park, swiped his card and waited for the barrier to lift before adding "…and come out alive at the other end…"

"With or without our jobs?"

"Not sure I care much at the moment…"

There was that, he thought. Maybe they were getting old, maybe they should take their little pensions and retire to some cottage in the country, muck about with horses and roses and mingle with the _County_ set… He grinned again.

"You're in a good mood this morning!" Doyle said, slamming the car door with more force than was necessary. "What's that look for?"

"Was just imagining us tootling around the countryside in our old age!"

"You still think we're going to reach old age after this morning, do you?"

"Maybe not in one piece…" He clapped Doyle on the back, pushing him ahead through the revolving door. "Morning John – how's the family?"

"Bloody murder – the twins are doing their re-sits next week, and Alice's discovered Eminem!"

" _M and M_ s? Make sure she cleans her teeth…" They disappeared into the lift. "Whatever happened to good old fashioned _Smarties_ , eh?"

"Pillock. Give me ten minutes to check my email, and then we can have a chat about what we'll say, alright?"

"Yeah, alright." Bodie left him at the door to his office, gave Salma a wave as he stepped into his own, and threw his briefcase down on the desk. He turned on his computer without any joy, and stuck his head back outside. "Coffee?"

Salma nodded, and he could hear her telling Rafe to make two cups, before he turned back in. Five past eight – just time to check the fixtures for tonight, and then he'd get stuck into it.

The Minister, of course, arrived early.

o0o

"…unfortunately, the climate of the times has outstripped us, and what was possible under George Cowley, when he first set up CI5, may no longer be viable now."

Bodie stared at the Minister, tried to decide, not for the first time, exactly what the man thought he was saying. 

"You want to disband the agency?"

"Good god no…"

Well, that was something...

"…but we may have to make compromises in order to retain the freedoms contained within your infamous _small print_."

"What kind of compromises?" Doyle asked, leaning back in his chair. If it was anyone else, Bodie might have thought he'd relaxed, but Doyle's eyes were narrowed, and he was rubbing his thumb over his forefinger in rhythmic circles. Any minute now…

"This is a different world to even ten years ago, and the war against terrorism…"

"We were fighting terrorism while that lot were poncing around Oxbridge eating strawberries and cream!" Doyle barked in frustration, standing up suddenly and pacing towards the window and back, pointing a finger at the Minister. Bodie winced, glad the suite was soundproofed. "There've been well over three thousand people killed by Irish terrorists _alone_ since 1969, and no one understands that kind of threat as well as CI5 does!"

The Minister took a breath, smiled placatingly. "Ray, you know I'm on your side about this, but we have to be _seen_ to be doing the right thing. CI5 has always operated quietly, in many ways under the radar, and perhaps without achieving the recognition that it really deserves..."

Bodie looked up, suddenly wary. CI5 didn't need recognition, that was the _last_ thing they needed. The Minister was still smiling, and Doyle had come to a halt, knowing as surely as Bodie knew that something was up.

"It is felt that perhaps a gesture of friendship towards the media might be in order, which, allied with some explanation of the complexities with which the agency has to deal every day, might go some way towards… damage control."

"Damage control?"

"Preferably before the situation fully arises." 

In other words, Bodie thought grimly, a rush job with a bit of polyfiller and maybe some wallpaper to try and cover the bumps that were Peter Merrick. 

He waited, Doyle waited.

"A documentary."

"What?"

The Minister rushed on, as if he'd memorised his script the night before, and knew that he just had to get it out before he could go away to a good glass of whisky. "A documentary showing the workings of CI5 – nothing that will compromise security, of course – and something of the lives of the men who run it."

"That'll be a short programme," Doyle muttered, "We're a bit big on security around here."

"Exactly," the Minister said with a smile. God, they were coming to it. "Therefore the focus will be more fully on yourselves – something on your history, your rise to position, your…private lives as ordinary British citizens doing a good job."

"Our private lives?" Bodie asked, before he could help himself.

"The Prime Minister feels that it might be... _in the public interest_ to show a softer side to CI5..."

The room took a breath, and then Doyle's eyes widened, and he took a step forward. "I can assure you, _Minister_ , that no matter what our _private lives_ are like, neither of us could be described as _soft_!"

The Minister smiled nervously, stood up and retreated further behind the other side of the wooden table with an extravagant wave of his arms to cover it up. "Of course not - that wasn't my implication, I just meant that being seen as individuals, complete with _domestic_ concerns as well as those for your country, would create a better impression of..."

"...of the diverse humanity that makes up one of the most powerful organisations in Britain?" Bodie interrupted. Domestic wasn't a word he'd apply to Doyle - to either of them - even when they were both wrapped in aprons and cooking in a mad panic for that dinner party Susan had conned them into holding, but they all knew that wasn't what the Minister meant. 

"Exactly," the Minister said slowly, as though he wasn't quite sure whether Bodie was taking him seriously.

Doyle ran a hand through his hair, and Bodie knew he was trying his best to calm down, to say something placating himself so that they could beat this thing. "Look, you know how CI5 works, this could be…"

"Ray, I've backed you in every situation I possibly could – on every occasion it didn't conflict with public policy or, heaven help us, the government whips. But my hands are tied here – there's nothing I can do."

And they'd thought they were safe. "Is Merrick really worth…"

The Minister turned to the window, lost some of his bluster. "Merrick is frying bigger fish than any of us knew, and… will no longer be a concern of CI5."

Bodie glanced sideways, met Doyle's gaze while he was free to do so, and shook his head slightly. They'd have to go along with it, but… "Alright, give us a month to clear up…"

"There's a production team waiting downstairs now, you'll find that Salma has arranged for you to meet with them, have lunch, and make a start. She's a good girl."

"Today?" How could they possibly be prepared for something like this that quickly?

"Strike while the iron's hot," the Minister said, attempting another smile, though he clearly knew he was on a loser. He reached down and picked up his briefcase, strode to their side of the table, pausing to unhook his coat from the rack by the door. A quick getaway, then. "I'm sorry – I really am."

Wood clashed on wood behind him, the sound of a job done, and relief, and Bodie stared after him for a moment, then took a deep breath and stood up himself.

"They're not going after CI5," Doyle said, "They want us."

Bodie bowed his head, didn't say anything – there was nothing _to_ say, not yet. He needed to think, needed some time – and that was one thing they didn't have. _She's a good girl…_

"Bring CI5 down _through_ us? That doesn't make sense…" Doyle frowned, swung around, strode to the window and stared unseeingly out. Bodie looked past him, could see trees thrashing in the distance, rags of cloud scudding across the sky above even greyer blocks of concrete and civilisation. 

_She's a good girl…_ Salma?

"Come on," he said abruptly, "Let's go out and get a coffee. Take a walk."

Doyle looked up at him, tipped his head in enquiry.

"Just a coffee. Stretch our legs before it all kicks off. Grab your coat - you take the front, I'll take the back and I'll meet you at the Starbucks on King Street." Far enough away, and busy enough, that it was unlikely to be bugged, windows big enough that they'd see if they were followed.

Away from the office, back on the streets.

 

**Chapter Three**

Doyle was there first, having walked in long, angry strides, pushing into the oncoming storm. The world clanged and clattered and flapped around him, blew at his coat and flustered at his hair, and he was almost sorry to shove the glass door open, to join the long queue of coffee-break secretaries, ladies who lunched, and fussing children. He thought longingly of Frankie, still in interrogation.

After all their work, after all their lives – no matter what he'd told himself the night before, he knew they'd both given their lives to CI5, wouldn't hesitate to die, fighting the good fight – some jumped up public school boy with a guilt complex about his own sexuality thought he was going to put an end to it. To _them_.

There was a rush of wind through the cafe as the door opened, and there was Bodie, winking at the three student girls in the line behind him, and sliding in to jostle his shoulder and offer him a brief beseeching smile. "Get me some of those funny biscuit-things," he said, "And I'll find us a good seat." He vanished into the crowd, looking as if all he cared about was bags-ing the comfy chairs. How did he manage it, Doyle wondered, watching the harassed _baristas_ steam milk and tap out coffee grinds; _Shusai_ be buggered, because meditation had never yet calmed _him_ down enough to float through life like that, no matter how much he wished it had. 

He tried taking deep breaths, slowly and calmly, realised that one of the students was eyeing him a bit strangely and nearly burst into Bodie-like giggles. That'd be all he needed, to get arrested for indecent… _breathing_. Do Merrick's job for him – because he had no doubt that this _was_ Merrick's work, that they'd underestimated him somewhere along the line, and were about to pay the price. He took the lattes the lad placed in front of him, biscuits precariously clutched by their wrapper between fourth and fifth fingers, and wound his way through the chairs and stools and errant pushchairs to the back of the room. 

True to form, Bodie had managed to nab the only two-seater settee, the one entirely on its own in front of the window, and was lounging indolently over it, woollen coat off and spread over the back in clear warning to usurpers. _This is ours_.

"They want to make fools of us," Doyle said tightly but quietly, as he lowered the mugs to the table and sat down, let his legs fall so that his knee was brushing Bodie's, not caring who could see. "Not CI5. Of us."

"Well we won't let them," Bodie replied, as if it was obvious, as if it was easy. He tore the packet of caramel waffles open, offered one to Doyle, who wrinkled his nose. 

"Your teeth'll fall out."

"I'll give you me false ones to look after every night."

He smiled into his coffee, despite himself. "I'll string 'em through with spinach."

"You're the only one'll have to look at it." Bodie leaned back, smiling and giving Doyle's leg a gentle shove as he did it, and Doyle felt himself thawing, as easily as that.

Still... "We can't let them do it."

"Ray, I don't think we've got much choice this time."

"It's ludicrous – expecting us to open the doors and show the entire London underground where we live and where we sleep. And you can _bet_ the cameras'll zoom in on where we sleep."

"So what if they do? Jimmy McGovern and his lot have been trying that tack for years, it didn't stop you breaking his arm when he wouldn't pack it in outside _The Red Lion_ last July, and it didn't keep him out of Pentonville, did it?"

Doyle sipped at his coffee, knew he should feel guilty for all the milk and too much caffeine, couldn't, for once, bring himself to be bothered. "Tell me it doesn't get to you!"

"It doesn't get to me," Bodie said obediently, and Doyle thought about pouring his latte all over him, settled for raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah alright, maybe it does - _some_ times, if I've had a bad day - but at the end of the day, who's it hurting?"

Christ, he remembered his mum saying that when he was a kid. _Just one little drink - who's it hurting?_ , and _He can stay overnight if he wants to - who's it hurting?_. And usually, sooner or later, it'd been _him_. 

"Sticks and stones," Bodie continued. "It's 2005, Ray, we've been legal for five years and we didn't give a shit before then anyway. Why's it bother you now?"

Doyle looked at him. Bodie was right, it wasn't _that_ that bothered him, it was the other - the idea that Peter _fucking_ Merrick had not only slid his oily way out of their net, but was sitting at home feeling smug about the fact that _he'd_ got one over on _them_. He put his mug down, took a breath, and ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it tightly and _pulling_ for just a second, just to remind himself what pain _was_.

"There's got to be some way..."

"There is." Bodie was looking smug again.

"Oh yeah? Does it involve feeding them to that woman with the teeth?"

"That... " Bodie thought for a moment, then shuddered theatrically. "You mean Ann Robinson? I wish it did. Nah, we just beat them at their own game."

"Bo- _die_..."

"No, I mean it. Look," he sat forward and twisted so that he was facing Doyle, away from the room, trusting Doyle to watch his back, "They want a documentary about two blokes who live together and run a government agency. Now, would you want to watch that?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Think about it - they can't show anything that'll compromise security, we're not about to have sex in front of the cameras, what does that leave? Me cleaning my gun collection, and you trying to get that bloody Harley to fire up for the first time in twenty years."

Doyle glared at him. "That's a classic bike, that... " He paused as realisation hit. "That's genius."

Bodie looked smug, took a bite of his biscuit and managed to grin while chewing.

"So... we bore them to death."

Bodie swallowed. "No one'll _want_ to watch."

"When d'you think of that, then?"

"On the way here - was trying to remember whether you'd managed to get that ignition switch you wanted, and strangely enough it just occurred to me..."

"Bastard."

"Genius bastard."

"Yeah, alright..." He reached over and punched Bodie's thigh lightly, then gave it a good grip and squeeze. "Tell you what, we'll take 'em down the shooting range and all, watching you miss for two hours on the run'll definitely be prime time viewing."

Bodie rolled his eyes, and crossed them at him, subsided back against the seat. "And as for Merrick," he said, much more quietly, "We need to have a think."

Yeah, they did that alright. "How many people have we still got in place?" They'd started to pull their agents from Merrick's various companies and businesses three months ago, but it was a slow job when they didn't want to raise suspicion. Even then they'd wanted to keep an _in_ , had been sure they'd be able to gather enough evidence if they could only find the right evidence to _gather_.

"Most of them – everyone except Ted at BioR, and Lanier and Bromley. We could start salting the media, see which way he jumps first."

Doyle shook his head. "Could be risky – he's had a defence for everything we've thrown at him so far. It's almost uncanny..."

"That's what I've been thinking."

Their eyes met, held a moment. If Merrick had managed to infiltrate _them_ , had managed to get himself into CI5...

Nah, surely he couldn't have, their security was tighter than that of any other agency, their protocols were proved and _working_. There was an echo of a Scottish voice in his ears, sliding around him, right through his bones. _...got to clean our own doorstep..._

"You think we're still sound?" Bodie asked, said the words out loud that neither of them wanted to think, to imagine.

He let things tick away for a moment, a hundred thousand _ifs_ and _maybes_ , strings pulling this tight and keeping that together. They were in control, he _knew_ they were in control, but CI5 had only grown through the years, and it was only made up of people.

At last he looked up, turned his head to meet Bodie's eyes. "Operation Susie?"

Bodie was quiet in his turn, and then he nodded, slowly. "It's going to have to be, innit."

Right then.

He drained his mug, tipped his head towards the door, and stood up, pulling on his coat and watching Bodie shrug into his own, settling his scarf around his neck. 

And in the meantime they'd make a television programme.

o0o

"The little-known government department Criminal Intelligence Five has been responsible for domestic security since the 1970s, when it was founded by formidable Scot George Cowley. Despite the peace movements of the 1960s, despite the many new post-war freedoms and wonders, the world was still desperately unstable: the IRA the PLO, the Baader-Meinhof Gang, the Symbionese Liberation Army - and many, many more, the list is long – were all convinced that the only way their demands would be realised was through violence. Anarchy, acts of terror, crimes against the public – Cowley recruited special men to help him in his fight,experts from the army, from the police, from every service – men who were at the top of their game, men who were true professionals. Now and then you might have caught a glimpse of them in the news, or read about them in the newspapers, but more often than not they have gone about their business quietly, too many of them giving their lives so that we could live safely. For the first time ever on television - this is their story."

o0o

**Chapter Four**

"Bodie, have you switched your phone off again?"

"Eh? No – not since you told me to stop doing it!"

"You sure?"

"'course I'm sure." He managed to look offended. "It's set on vibrate an' all. Makes a hell of a noise on top of the filing cabinet."

"Filing cabinet?"

"In my office. 's where I left it."

"Bo- _die_ …"

"What? Just wanted some uninterrupted time…"

"Bollocks you did, you just knew Salma'd transfer to me automatically!"

He grinned unrepentantly, and eavesdropped as Doyle took the call. The production crew, apparently, was waiting, hyped up on Red Bull and Ministerial sanction.

"Didn't suppose there was much hope they'd pack it in and go home," Doyle said gloomily, as they turned the corner, HQ standing tall and gleamingly modern in front of them. 

They'd given up on subterfuge and walked back together, just two anonymous, middle aged men in winter coats. When they reached the entrance to the building they paused, took a breath. Put one foot wrong, Bodie thought, and that comfortable anonymity would be gone forever.

"Remember – be nice," he said, poking Doyle's shoulder hard enough to earn a glare. "We need them on our side."

"I'm not the one who had the Press Secretary threatening to de-ball him last week!"

"She was pre-menstrual," Bodie said with a reminiscent grin. She'd also been officious, ignorant and unpleasant.

"Well maybe she was, but this is the twenty first century, _Bodie_ , you shouldn't have told her so to her face – it was bound to end in tears."

"Look, I do have some tact, you know. Anyway, these guys'll be a different kettle of fish, won't they – young, excitable, eager to please…"

He glanced into what Doyle called their Green Room, a glass fronted reception area complete with corporate settees, potted plants, and inspirational prints on the walls. There were what looked like half a dozen people milling about, stepping frantically around, over, and occasionally on, assorted metal cases scattered around them, and as he expected none of them looked as if they were a day over twenty five. There were a couple of lads, both tall and well-built, and four rather artistic-looking young women, all of whom were wearing some sort of sheepskin boots. One of them caught his eye as they passed, and he smiled brightly.

"I hope that lot's been checked and checked again," Doyle muttered, "Could hide all sorts in there. I thought they did everything with a single video camera these days."

"Just cos you got seasick watching _The Office_ that time."

"I had an ear infection," Doyle said with enough dignity that Bodie reached over to ruffle his hair as they got back into the lift, and then had to apologise to the three IT technicians who'd tried desperately to duck into the far corner, out of their way.

They were alone again by the time they reached the seventh floor, and Bodie took a last opportunity to raise his eyebrows in warning, just before the doors slid open. "Best behaviour?"

"Best behaviour," Doyle agreed, "Although if it's come to the day when _you're_ warning _me_ then we should all be worried." They stepped out into the foyer, paused at Salma's desk. "You've got some guests for us, love?"

Salma smiled at them, though Bodie fancied she looked more warmly at Doyle than she did him – a softening to her eyes, a slight tilt of her body towards him – but then she'd probably seen both their files at some point over the years, and he'd long ago accepted that his didn't make pleasant reading for most people. "I've got some papers for you both to sign before you head off to the Centre this afternoon, and the results of the latest appraisals," she placed two alarmingly bulky piles of manilla folders in front of them, "And this is the list of operations approved for the television crew."

Bodie blinked, paused in the act of flicking through his signature file, and looked up at her. "Approved by who?"

Doyle had opened the list, was skimming it with a frown. "This is the list of operations we passed for Met involvement last week."

"That's right, sir."

"For the Commissioner on an _eyes only_ basis."

Bodie frowned, turned and tilted his head to read over Doyle's shoulder. 

"The Minister gave me strict instructions that…"

The bloody Minister. " _He told you to lie to us…_ " Bodie began, was pulled up short by Doyle's elbow in his stomach.

"Alright, Sal," Doyle wrinkled his nose at her in sympathy. "I know what he's like." It wasn't entirely clear whether he meant the Minister or Bodie himself.

 _She's a good girl…_ Bodie thought again, and for the first time wondered if perhaps there was a reason for the slight scrape of friction there'd always been between them. _Copper's nose_ Cowley had called it, _a sixth sense for trouble_ his family had always said, when he'd been the only one not caught in some hijinks, _yet again_.

"They're in reception now, Ray, shall I have them brought up to Meeting Room Five? You should all fit in there."

Doyle nodded, and vanished into his office, leaving Bodie to gather up his files and take them through to the growing pile on his own desk. Really he should stop in this afternoon, get rid of some of his paperwork, but they'd had meetings practically back to back all week so far, and even with a bunch of kids peering over their shoulders, he wanted to be out on the shooting range, amongst the noise and the smoke and the thrill of knowing straight away that he'd either got it perfectly right or not. There was time to think, out on the range, his body flowing from one movement to another, every sense focussed so that his mind was free to properly relax, to know what it needed to know. 

He shrugged out of his coat, smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie, and settled for a moment in front of his computer, giving the kids time to get upstairs and settled, losing himself in the Type 05 pre-report. Back in his day it would have taken them nearly a week to get it written up the way Linda and Clark had done it, a section for everything and everything in the right section. And even then Cowley would probably have returned it to them twice for corrections. Now it was all tick boxes and pre-formatting…

"You ready?"

"Always," he said, looking up and grinning as lecherously as he knew how.

"For the _meeting_ Bodie… My god, it's not even eleven o' clock yet…"

Their days were almost always long, but he had to admit that this had already been more full of unpleasant surprises than usual. Shootings, bombings, chemical warfare – he'd dealt with all those things before breakfast and felt less worn than he did now.

"Give them five more minutes to cool their heels?" he suggested, glancing again at the Type 05 report.

"Soonest done, soonest over," Doyle countered, as he always did, as he always, without any doubt, would, and so Bodie heaved himself from his chair, straightened his tie again, and bowed Doyle to the door in front of him. 

"Age before beauty, then," he said, and watched the way Doyle's muscles worked through his suit trousers, flex and push, all the way to Meeting Room Five. 

"Horse's Mouth Productions, I presume?" Doyle said pleasantly as they entered, and Bodie's greeting caught in his throat as he struggled to suppress a smirk, managed to turn it into a cough instead. Who'd chosen _that_ name, and why hadn't he been warned? 

"Petra Campanelli," said one of the young ladies, jumping to her feet in a swirl of long dark hair, "Producer-Director." She shook their hands firmly, held their gaze steadily, as if she'd been trained for it, and she had very attractive blue eyes, and such long lashes... She gestured at the small blonde girl beside her. "This is Kerri, who's on camera; my production assistant Tom Molyneux; Daisy Wentworth looks after sound, and Toby is our runner. Sarah is just here for this initial meeting, she's our legal advisor, she'll be liaising with Salma and your team."

"I'm Bodie, this is Ray Doyle," he said, smiling at her. She smelled of flowers and fresh air. "We'll be working together on your programme."

"We'll be shadowing you," she corrected, gently but firmly. "You'll barely know we're here if we do it right, and I promise that we _always_ ," she paused, "do it right."

"I believe you have a schedule for us," Doyle interrupted, though Bodie knew he believed no such thing. Good man though - was there an outside chance they might bog off to organise one and leave them in peace until tomorrow?

"We do indeed." The taller of the two men – lads,really, Bodie thought – stepped forward and handed them each a plastic binder. "We've spoken with Mrs Patel and between us marked up the most convenient moments for filming across the next few months – some interviews, some location shots, and as much work with your… um… _offenders_ as has been sanctioned by yourselves. But mostly, as Petra said, we'll just be following along unobtrusively, trying to capture some _real moments_ to…er…"

"…show what we're made of." Doyle looked him up and down with amusement. "It's alright, we've briefed the Minister, we know what you want and we'll do our best to make sure you get it."

Doyle'd always been good at undercover, Bodie thought, with something like pride. He'd probably come off as some action hero in the documentary, all honest conviction and quick thinking, everything he did cleverly justified to the cameras... Maybe he should have been an actor, his Doyle, swashbuckling across a stage in some of those boots that bloke was wearing last night - what was his name - Chauvelin, the Pimpernel's arch enemy...

"...transparency," Petra was saying, "It's all about transparency. The Minister was very keen for us to have all access…"

Bodie looked up from perusing Salma's _schedule_. _Months_? "He's also very keen for CI5 to continue as a secure agency on the forefront of Britain's international efforts against crime and terrorism, both domestic and international," he said smoothly, "And he understands, as I'm sure you do, the difficult legal territory that we tread when undertaking liaison with professionals such as yourselves." Petra gaped, briefly, and Bodie twinkled at her. He'd always been good with words. When required. "But I certainly hope that you'll be able to…" he paused in his turn, "… _accompany us_ whenever it's appropriate for you to do so."

Petra's eyes narrowed. 

"Would you like to tell us something about your plans, Miss Campanelli?" Doyle asked, apparently at his ease, strolling to the far end of the table and sitting down in the executive leather chair. Five heads swivelled to look at him, and Bodie took his own seat, clasped his hands keenly on the table in front of him, caught Doyle's eye and winked.

"Well, we see this very much as an effort that will reveal the inner workings of one of our country's most _important_ security organisations, at a time when the public demands transparency from all its _employees_ ," Petra began, and Bodie nodded along, with a silent _Bollocks it will_. "But the focus will be very much on yourselves as the head of unit, the men behind the mission, the human face of our protectors."

"Your knights in shining armour," Bodie offered, so that they had to swivel towards him once more, and he gave them his best smile for their trouble.

"Do go on," Doyle said, and they turned again.

Bodie let himself _really_ smile.

"We will of course look at the way CI5 deals with the problems facing society today. For example, the war on drugs…" Petra began.

"No."

"What?" Five heads turned back, and for a moment Petra looked cross at having been interrupted, then her face relaxed to simple confusion.

"If it's a _war_ then it's not looking good for our side, is it?" Bodie said. "The Ya… The _Americans_ have a war on drugs - not us." Not officially.

"That's just semantics, Mr Bodie," Petra said, "Fight, battle, call it what you will…"

 _Kids_. She was missing his point already. Bodie nearly rolled his eyes, managed to make himself sound more politic. Anything and everything to dull it down. "Still, we'd prefer it if you weren't too linguistically inflammatory…"

Unseen by Petra, Doyle raised an eyebrow. _Best behaviour, Bodie_.

"…we don't want the pushers getting some grand notion of themselves as war heroes, do we?" He smiled his smile again, the wide, guileless smile that had won him more hearts and fannies than he could remember over the years.

Petra smiled back, not giving an inch. "Oh, you can let us worry about all that sort of thing – " Bodie could see Doyle's eyes shine suddenly, that he was swallowing a grin, "You just need to be yourselves, carry on as normal, you know? We'll take care of the politics in the cutting room."

He'd just bet they would, Merrick's happy puppets. He made a mental note to look up _Horse's Mouth Productions_ , and in particular where their funding came from.

Petra had turned back to speak to Doyle, was holding forth earnestly on her _vision_ for the programme, and Bodie took his chance to look more carefully at the schedule. He felt his eyes widen, took a deep breath and turned the page. 

The appointed bookings began with their swim at the Centre at one that afternoon, and continued until around ten that night for something called _atmospheric location clipping_. They started again at nine the next morning, ran until eight in the evening, when there was a half hour's break in between finishing work and attending the London Government dinner - which would be dire enough _without_ their being filmed at the same time, and... that was the pattern until some time around the middle of next week.

Fucking _hell_... 

"Your tentative schedule is looking pretty full," he said, as Petra seemed to come to a halt at last, and be expecting a response from Doyle. "We'll certainly try our best, but there might be a problem accommodating all of this."

"The Minister _did say_ that you would be able to cooperate fully," Petra said, her smile unflinching, self-assured.

"And of course we will," Bodie reassured her, "Unfortunately, even as heads of department we are sometimes called on to participate more actively in cases, in situations where it would be inappropriate to risk the lives of even dedicated professional _civilians_ like yourselves, and so our diaries tend to be somewhat more flexible than they generally look." He remembered the first time he'd _had_ a diary, not long after the Cow'd been taken into hospital - it had been months before he'd ever written anything in it, and it hadn't lasted long then, not once Salma had arrived and taken them in hand. 

"We should talk about George Cowley," Doyle suggested, as Petra opened her mouth again, and Bodie wondered if he'd been thinking along the same lines. "I expect you're planning a detailled retrospective of what he did for the department - war hero, in the life-long service of his country and so on - most of the rules we live by can be traced back to his example." He stood up, and Bodie followed suit, hoping Doyle was going to get them out of there. "Now - I'm sure you'd all like some lunch before we meet again at the Centre, so why don't we say..."

"In fifty minutes time, at the swimming pool? I know Kerri's aching to get some shots of you both in action - and Salma has scheduled us in to start this afternoon. After all, soonest begun and all that."

Doyle had reached the door by then, but half-turned back as Petra spoke, a frown starting to furrow his brow, his eyes flashing suddenly. Bodie pushed him forwards instead of letting him speak, propelled him into the corridor where Petra's final words echoed after them, "And don't worry about your schedule - we'll take care of everything!"

o0o

"The agents of CI5 are a special breed, at the peak of physical fitness, their lives dedicated to speed and accuracy. No one offers them medals, or honours or glory, although they work beyond Olympic-level standard – they have to, in order to save lives. Our lives. Today, however, we have been given the rare – no, the previously unknown _opportunity to see how they train. Men – and women – wrestling with themselves, both physically and mentally, and literally wrestling with each other, to be the best they can be. You have only to look at their arms while they shoot, their legs as they use the weight machines – muscled and pumping – to watch their bodies as they slice through the water, side by side, as they roll together on the training mats. These_ are _special men, and in this programme we will follow, for a while, the lives of two_ very _special men – the heads of CI5 themselves, William Bodie and Raymond Doyle."_

__

o0o

**Chapter Five**

"Did we win that one by any chance?" Doyle asked, as they strolled back down the corridor.

"Not sure. One all?"

"Yeah… That schedule's going to come apart in no time, mind. It never lasts the day at the best of times."

"Just as well – have you seen it?"

Doyle nodded gloomily. "Attila the Hun took more breaks for his elephants."

"Hannibal."

"Eh?"

"Hannibal had elephants."

"I thought he had the faver beans and a nice…"

"Excuse me, sir? I've got that marked employee list you wanted ASAP?"

 _A-S-A-P_ \- when had he become the sort of man who requested things _ASAP_? Around the same time Bodie'd given in and bought a laptop, he supposed. He paused, turned to smile at the young agent standing in front of them. Trouble was, they all looked young now. "Great Bill, thanks. Saw your assessment this morning by the way – nicely done."

Bill flushed and nodded, looking pleased, long blond fringe flopping across his forehead as he headed back to the break room. Twenty years ago he'd have been a _Hooray_ , now he was… well, Doyle didn't know what he was, but he was young and keen to do well, and as susceptible as anyone to a bit of flattery, the promise of faster promotion.

He leaned against the wall absently, juggled files until Bill's was open and on top, and scanned the neatly printed pages. Six addresses had been highlighted in bold, one had been asterisked. He stared at it, at the names beside it, bit his lip.

"I thought we were having lunch?" Bodie clapped his hands together impatiently, "Come on, it'll be too late if you're going to stop and do paperwork every five minutes."

"Not before a swim," he managed absently, then flipped the file shut, and passed it to Bodie. The corridor was as good a place as any, a file room lined with thick metal cabinets behind the wall at their back, another glass-fronted meeting room in front of them – empty – and a good view down the corridor in either direction. "Take a look at that lot," he said, low-voiced.

He watched as his partner skimmed the list, waited for the moment when he realised what he was looking at. Bodie breathed in, his nostrils flared.

"When did you do this?"

"While you were checking the match scores."

"How'd you know I was checking the scores?"

"You always…" Bloody Bodie, playing for time to think. "What d'you reckon? Could be the best bet."

Bodie looked back at the list, was silent, considering. "Who're you thinking?"

"Sophie."

"What, Sophie with the big…" Bodie tucked his files under his arm and made the universal sign for _tits_ , unluckily just as two of their female agents walked past.

"Belly, yeah," Doyle interrupted, "Due any day now, and cousin… _Humphrey_ 's getting nervous."

They were treated to glares that managed to be disbelieving, respectful, and just slightly flirtatious all at once. 

"You know, I reckon we could be in there," Bodie said with an appreciative leer as the girls vanished around a corner.

"You're a harassment suit waiting to happen, you are," Doyle frowned, "I can't believe you've not been done already."

"I've been done plenty of times, 4.5," Bodie paused, looked around and leaned more closely in, under guise of looking at the file again, "Usually by you. Usually after you've responded particularly well to a decent bit of _harrassment_."

He'd thought, somehow, that as they got older they'd slow down, that they'd end up as staid and respectable as every other desk-bound fifty-something in the City. It didn't seem to be happening.

"Harass me when we get home," he suggested in a low voice. "In the meantime – Sophie's on the Howlett case right now, isn't she?"

Bodie nodded. "Her and Younes – they're a pretty good team."

"Yeah, we might keep that one. After this is done. What d'you think?" He didn't mean the partnership.

"She's got all the qualifications. I think you could be onto something, my son." He nodded, passed the file back to Doyle. " _Humphrey_?"

"Next door witch's cat, she was out shouting for him this morning. We're on personnel interviews tomorrow, good chance to get her briefed then."

"She'll be glad to be off Howlett anyway – it's still going nowhere, you know. I told you so."

"It's on Petra's list of safe jobs, maybe we should send them off there for a bit."

"Better get this afternoon over first, see what they're going to be like. You never know, maybe she's right, maybe we'll never notice them."

"Yeah, and maybe you haven't noticed that camera girl's… _assets_ either…"

"Dunno what you're talking about 4.5." Bodie grinned, took hold of his sleeve and started dragging Doyle towards their offices. "Go check yer emails or whatever it is you do when you're working and I'll meet you in the car in twenty minutes." 

"Yeah alright… Oh and Bodie?" He gave him a shove. "Get your mobile from the plant pot you tried to hide it in, whilst you're waiting?"

Bodie's eyes widened slightly, but Doyle'd seen him slip it in there when they left Bodie's office for the meeting, so he shook his head until Bodie looked guilty instead.

"It's not like anyone's going to call me when I'm with you," he said, pausing to take the post Salma handed to him over her desk.

"They bloody would if you carried your phone with you!" Doyle shouted back, with a rueful look at Salma. "He'll never do it, I know he won't."

"Do you mind, really?"

"Nah – he takes it when he really has to, doesn't he?" He tilted his head, remembering his promise of the night before. "Have you had your lunch yet?"

"It's barely twelve o'clock…"

"Can't be… Is that the midnight version?" He smiled at her. "Well you make sure you take it today – the others can hold the fort perfectly well for an hour or so."

"Speaking of forts, Sayyed wants to know if they should extend Frankie J or let him go?"

"Thanks, I'll talk to him…"

o0o

The TV crew were waiting impatiently by the security desk when they finally made it to the Centre, barely twenty minutes late, even if those twenty minutes had been more or less on purpose. But Frankie had a few more things to think about, Doyle was satisfied that Jax had done a decent job at the E-Secure conference, and he'd even managed to read the rest of Ben's interminable report on the Wiesner case.

"Been waiting long?" Bodie asked them pleasantly, "Never mind – got your security passes, I hope?"

Unfortunately Salma had been her usual efficient self.

They wandered into the changing rooms, swapping information and catching each other up on this or that case, and Doyle found he was looking forward to the afternoon more than he had been. It'd be okay – they'd swim, they'd shoot, they'd…

He paused, aware that the figure behind them was the tall lad - Tom was it? – who seemed to have taken over the camera. He'd followed them into the room, lens never wavering as it tracked them from door to lockers. Doyle was suddenly aware, as he rarely was, of how close he and Bodie were standing as they stripped down to their swimming trunks, of how often their arms brushed together, of the way they casually watched each other undress while they were talking.

He moved back slightly to roll up his trousers and stow them neatly in his bag, saw Bodie look up in surprise. He slammed the locker, strode quickly through the footbath and out to the pool itself, dived in without hesitation. The water was cool around him, and he slid along near the bottom for half a length in the calm blue-tiled world, before rising for breath and continuing to the other end of the pool. Turn, reach, kick...

He knew when Bodie dived in, when he rose to gently churn water in the lane beside him, knew exactly when he slid into his usual place, pacing Doyle stroke for stroke. Generally they'd end in a race, in a cheerful push to be the first one to finish their laps and set hands on the pool edge, to propel themselves up to sit on the rough concrete of it and stretch for their towel, to breathe slowly, recover first. More often than not they'd just sit there for a few moments, the real, slower world catching up with them again, then they'd get up and walk, together still, to shower away the chlorine in a white lather of shampoo and soap. He slid through the water now, pictured the bubbles sliding down Bodie's skin, across his chest, down to his stomach, down...

He reached the end of the pool, heaved himself up to sit, and then to stand, breath harsher than it should have been. In the water Bodie faltered slightly, but carried on to another length. Doyle bent down and scooped up his towel, wiped his face with it and hung it across his shoulders, looked around.

The TV crew were faffing with their equipment at the other end of the room, Petra fiddling with microphone wires or some such, not looking at either of them, not seeming to pay them any attention at all. Would that have changed, if they'd been sitting on the edge of the pool beside each other again, close enough _again_ that their shoulders touched? Even as he watched Kerri swung her camera to the water, tracking Bodie as he sliced through it, skin pale, muscles working easily.

There was no harm in that, and Bodie looked good - of course Bodie always looked good. He shook his head, sending drops falling from water-straightened hair to shoulders. He was paranoid with it already, seeing danger where perhaps there was none – in a bunch of kids who'd been sent to do a job he'd been easily countering for years now. He padded along the hard, cold floor, waving to a couple of the lads who'd come in to join them, and paused to hear what Petra was saying to the camera.

_"These are the men who head up one of Britain's most elite security agencies – CI5. They are hard, they are experienced, they have risen through the ranks to become two of the most quietly influential men in the country today. They work together, they train together, and…" Petra paused, looked confidingly at the camera, "…they live together."_

What?

Doyle had stepped away from the side of the pool in a second, had pushed the camera down from its focus on Bodie until all it would see was concrete. "I don't think so!"

"Is there a problem?" Petra turned to him, frowning slightly. "Did I get that wrong? You don't live together?"

"We live together," Doyle managed through clenched teeth, "I don't see what that has to do with the fact that we run CI5!"

"It's the people-factor, Mr Doyle, we talked about that earlier?"

Patronising cow. "I remember _exactly_ what we talked about…"

"The humanising side of the documentary is where we include selected information about your private lives, so that we can show the country that the difficult decisions you make each day could have been made by anyone watching." She smiled now, perhaps she thought she was being placating. "We want to show that you're ordinary men, just as the viewers are – the Minister's voters are."

Doyle took a breath, tried not to see her gaze sliding from his face down to his chest, all the way down his nearly naked body to his feet and back up again. He put his hands on his hips defiantly, stared back at her until she met his eyes again.

Bitch.

But how did he tell her that he didn't like her insinuations when that's all they were – pauses and glances like smears of dirt on glass, barely there, barely noticeable unless you pointed them out for everyone to see, for everyone to comment on and make a fuss about?

"Problem?" Bodie appeared behind him, Adonis dripping water, put a hand on his back.

Doyle moved away, frowned at first him and then Petra. "You wanted to see us train – how much more d'you need of us in the pool?" 

"We've got enough to be going on with," Petra said, in what was probably her best voice, of patience "And we can always come back, can't we?"

"'course we can," Bodie said cheerfully. "I've done me two hundred anyway – even if Doyle was slacking off!"

"You do two hundred lengths every day?" Petra asked him, looking impressed, and Doyle turned away, rolling his eyes. 

Kerri was standing there still, holding tightly to her camera, looking a bit shaken. He supposed he had been a bit rough.

"Sorry," he said, as he never would to Petra, and shrugged in what he hoped was an apologetic manner. "Not used to this sort of thing." Her lips trembled into a slight smile, and he tried smiling reassuringly back.. "D'you really have what you need from us here? We can always get in and do a few more lengths with the others." He gestured vaguely behind him, to the agents swimming conscientiously up and down while the bosses were watching.

"That's alright," Kerri shook her head, "We really can come back if we have to. You're booked at the shooting place, aren't you?"

"Shooting range," Doyle said, "It's out back. Won't be very exciting I'm afraid."

"I've never seen anyone shoot a real gun before. Is it very loud?"

"We'll give you ear defenders – in fact you're not allowed in there without them." He glanced at Bodie, who was taking his leave from Petra, and waved towards the changing rooms. "I need a few more clothes, and we'll be with you in a minute, alright?"

"Alright," she agreed, smiling more broadly now. At least she seemed pleasant enough – less pushy than Miss Media over there. He left her packing away her bits and pieces, joined Bodie under the showers and then splashed back through to the changing rooms.

His vague peace of mind didn't last long.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Bodie demanded when they were alone again.

Doyle pulled open his locker, rummaged for his change of clothes, for trainers. "What d'you mean?"

"Look, Ray, this has only just started, don't you think it might be an idea to go easy on them for a while?"

"I wasn't the one who kept them waiting while I faffed about with Mullers!"

"He was worried about their case!"

"You spent fifteen minutes telling him about that bloody stakeout we were on in Colchester – seven years ago!"

"It was relevant."

"It was bollocks."

"Never said it wasn't."

Doyle deflated a little, as he knew he was meant to. "You don't know what she was saying, it's obvious they've been briefed to stick the knife in."

"What was she saying?"

"Ah, you don't wanna know…" He tipped his head back, stared without seeing at the ceiling, nightmare horrors of television taunts rushing across the smooth white plaster. "Let's just go and shoot something, eh?"

o0o

"Arming the police has always been controversial – whether with guns, tear gas, or the latest electro-shock stun guns – but CI5 has been above that debate since its inception. Their agents carry guns, even William Bodie and Raymond Doyle carry guns. Despite being increasingly desk-bound they come often, as often as they can, to shoot with each other at the training centre. While other agents are taught the basics of firearm safety, and how to use a taser to maximum effect, Bodie and Doyle fire round after round in an alley together, with explosive results."

o0o

**Chapter Six**

Bodie breathed the smell of cordite, felt it running through his blood, beating with his heart. Beside him Doyle was focussed on his target, a lean figure still, in jeans and a t-shirt, and Bodie watched the muscles in his arms flex and play as he squeezed the trigger, braced for recoil without thinking, without apparent movement but for those muscles… 

The dark figure at the very end of the strip remained proudly straight and tall, and Bodie pulled off his ear defenders, hit the button to bring it back up the range and waited. He was aware of the camera crew glancing at each other behind the barrier, of Kerri's camera wavering, and Tom and Toby smirking and looking unimpressed as they gazed at the approaching shape. 

Doyle stood with his back to them, apparently uncaring, tapping the empty P99 against his leg. Bodie kept his finger on the button and his eyes on the crew. After a moment their smiles faded. Petra's mouth fell open, Daisy blinked, and the lads both licked their lips, avoided each other's eyes. Bodie let himself look at the target – Doyle had shot a perfectly vertical, perfectly straight line from the figure's head right down to its crotch. Or…

"You're getting old, 4.5."

"Yeah, I know." Doyle frowned. "Was nearly two millimetres off on the sixth shot."

"Could be your life," Bodie suggested slyly.

"Could be yours," Doyle corrected, and turned to the crew. "Did you get what you needed here?"

"Um…" Kerri paused, and Doyle smiled at her. 

"I can shoot again if you like. Or you could get some of Bodie missing 'is?"

"No – no that's fine," Kerri glanced nervously at Bodie, who watched yet another female fall for Doyle's strange brand of charm.

"You should see me with something a little bit longer – more powerful," he said, smiling broadly when Doyle rolled his eyes. 

"You ignore him, love, he's got an over-inflated sense of his own… assets."

"My assets are…" Bodie paused, aware that they'd all turned to face him, that Doyle's eyebrow was raised, and that Kerri's camera might have been sitting casually against her shoulder, but it was still running. "…still useful in the field," he finished, and was pleased to see Doyle's smile widen. Well, they'd had more than one memorable stake-out in a field. 

"We'd like to get some footage of the range in general, the other agents in training?" Petra asked, fiddling with the microphone wire that ran somewhere up inside her t-shirt and clipped onto its wide neckline. Bodie watched appreciatively for a moment, met her eyes innocently when she looked up at him.

"As long as you stay behind the barriers. You'll be told if you're in a no-go area." he said. "We'll be here for a couple of hours yet."

She trailed off towards a cluster of agents being briefed with the new tasers, Kerri close in her wake, the others following more slowly, and he picked up his own gun, loaded a clip. "Alright, Dead-Eye, move aside and I'll show you how it's done."

Doyle, secure and smug as ever in his own expertise, stepped past him to stand by the ammo shelf, hooking his thumbs in his back pockets and leaning casually back against it.

"And don't think that little lot's going to distract me," Bodie added, nodding at the horizontal lines like arrows across Doyle's old, faded jeans. He knew that pair – they were soft, and they were patched in the back where he'd torn them…

"Bodie!"

"What?" He glanced up, realised that Doyle was looking nervously around, as if Petra and her crew were going to bounce up from behind the barrier at any moment. "Oh for god's sake, they've _gone_! This is as close to an afternoon off as we get – don't you think you're going just a little over the top?"

"They…" Doyle's phone rang out, interrupting them both, and Bodie didn't know whether to snatch it and throw it down the range or whether to thank it. He took a steadying breath, listened to Doyle's end of the conversation. "…Good… No, not yet… Move Mistry and Allison then, will you? Ah… Right. Cheers, Dave." 

Dave in logistics? 

Doyle slid his phone closed, and then into his pocket, a slight bulge beneath those arrows. "You wanna shoot?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah – then why don't we go out to the woods?"

There was a clearing in the woods, used unofficially for handgun practice, where the light and the wind could make things a little more interesting, where there was an illusion of being free from work, and where their voices couldn't be overheard. He nodded. "I'll beat you there as well, sunshine," he said, brought his 226 to bear and fired in a smooth series of shots. He'd never be as good as Doyle with a handgun, but he wasn't far off – and they were both still alive to prove it.

His target came back with a smiling face, and a necktie, and Doyle tipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Flash."

"Style!" Bodie protested, hanging up his ear defenders and pocketing a dozen rounds as they left.

Doyle led, and Bodie followed, past the crew who looked at them suspiciously, were placated with a wave from Doyle, out into the cold wind and grey light of January.

"Everything alright?" he asked, once they'd collected a box of bottles and were traipsing their way through stubbled grass and up the slight hill. 

"We've got Ellis in at Merrick's recycling plant – temping in the offices."

"Useful. Thought he was in Dublin?"

Doyle shook his head. "He had to lie low after last week, Jax decided to recall him and he got back on Tuesday."

"Tuesday?" That wasn't a lot of time to move from one job to another, not these days with the Psych Office breathing down their necks. 

"He's alright – he asked for it, Dave said." Doyle caught his eye, looked away again. "His girl moved on while he was away."

"Ah… Well, it's an ill wind."

"Yeah…"

"So we've got Merrick covered again." Bodie let his mind wander over the idea. It was riskier now the Minister had actually told them to lay off, but no worse than anything else. And he hadn't actually ordered them to pull their agents – just said that Merrick was no longer CI5's concern…

"Once Sophie's in place, yeah."

"You sure they'll take her?"

Doyle looked at him, eyes amused. "Wouldn't you? There's only one unattached bloke in that house, and he works for BioR. She's in."

"What are the vacancies?"

"An Immunologist, a Level Co-ordinator, and a Catering Officer."

"A Catering _Officer_?" Bodie asked with a grin, reaching into their box and starting to set out the bottles along the crumbling wall that had once been _something_. 

"Non-commissioned." Doyle grinned back briefly and looked around them, for all the world as if he was checking the weather. "If we're lucky she'll get the Co-ordinator post."

"If we're unlucky, he'll turn out to be gay."

"Nah." Doyle, who hated labels with a passion, and particularly that one, sniffed and pulled his gun from where he'd tucked it in his waistband - _against_ Health and Safety regs. "If we're really unlucky she'll fall for one of the other housemates instead."

"Christ, it's like _Big Brother_ already…"

"They've got better surveillance equipment than we do."

"Yeah, but their ammo's not as good."

"Oh I dunno…" Doyle glanced at him, and Bodie kicked himself for reminding him of his fears. Bloody television. 

"We'll de-rail 'em, no worries."

"What, with you talking on camera about your _assets_?"

"You started that!" Bodie lifted his gun to match Doyle's, and they took it in turns to shoot the bottles from the wall, all twenty of them and not a single miss. The tinkle and crack of smashed glass faded into the wind around them, and he started to turn back to Doyle again, pleased with it all – they might be getting on a bit, but they'd still pass grade seven in targets anyway – when movement behind them caught his eye. He whipped around, gun raised, Doyle moving in perfect accord so that they were both confronting the intruders, both… 

…aiming directly at the hearts of Petra Campanelli and her camerawoman.

o0o

By the time they made it back to HQ, all hell had broken loose on the day and Horses' Mouth Productions was the last thing on his mind. The ambassador from Betan was lying dead on a street in Clapham, Benny had taken a bullet to his chest that might kill him even after its removal, and two of their youngest agents were being held hostage at Repley Open Detention Centre.

Bodie coordinated from their Communication Room and Doyle went out to Repley himself, determined to manage a decent resolution and some favourable publicity, Bodie well aware of his hope that if they gave the Minister _this_ then they might be allowed to lose their _human factor_ shadows. Bodie would be happy if they could get it over without adding a prison riot to the list of disasters. 

"How the hell did Ahman find out about Trishama?" he asked a harassed Jax. He paced the room, dodging desks and whiteboards, ran a hand through his hair and frowned, then looked into the distance with his fists on his hips. "And what was Trishama doing in West bloody Clapham in the first place? Unless..."

Doyle's voice rang over the comms. "Bodie - check Trishama's second wife - her brother's got contacts in..."

"Mashanaland!"

"You've got it." And Doyle didn't sound surprised that they'd been finishing each other's sentences, each other's thoughts, and nor, looking around the muster of senior agents, did most of those in the Comm Room. Young Alex had raised his eyebrows at Sayyed though, and Bodie found himself feeling smug. Their legend would live on.

"Get me the records for..." he barked out, and the afternoon carried on in a rush and a glare of bright lights and computer screens, of phone patches to Ahman and his chums in Repley, and the final appearance of three cowed young men, and their multi-pocketed vest full of explosive. 

"Not a single shot fired," Doyle said directly into Bodie's ear, his voice loud and triumphant over their mobiles. "That should please 'em up at the House."

"Don't you believe it, they'll want to know why we didn't see it coming." Bodie gave Jax a thumbs up and a wave, left them to wrap things up with the various police and other units, and took himself off to find a coffee. His nerves jangled with the release from being cooped up and tense, from knowing that Doyle had gone out and was on his way back safely, yet again. One day their luck would peter out, their borrowed time have to be repaid - but not tonight.

"They can take a running jump," Doyle crowed. "Look, I'll be back in half an hour - we'll get this wrapped up, and go out for a meal, what d'you reckon?"

"Sounds good to me - you buying?"

"Buying, eating, drinking," Doyle said expansively. "And then I'm taking you home to bed."

Bodie grinned. "I hope you're in the car on your own, 4.5." He hung up, took a mouthful of coffee machine swill, and grimaced. The phone rang again, and he slid it open without looking at it. "Yes, I'll make a start on the bloody report for the bloody... Oh hello, Minister..."

o0o

Doyle slammed the door behind them, and scowled. "D'you know what time it is? It's half nine and we're only just getting in – and we're due back before seven tomorrow morning! I thought desk jobs were all about the better hours?"

"Did you ever see the Cow go home before we did?" Bodie asked, stripping off his coat and scarf and hanging them happily on the hatstand. They were not only home, they were alone. "On the bright side, it's half nine, and we've just got in... Uh-uh-uh." He put a hand on Doyle's chest, stopped him sidling past towards the kitchen, and propelled him back against the door instead. "After all that _desking_ I think you need to stand up for a while, don't you?" He slid his other hand up Doyle's thigh, cupped him through his trousers. One thing about suits, they were softer than jeans, there was more room for movement… for growth… He stroked firmly, felt his hand fill as Doyle's cock filled, pressed forward to trap him more tightly against the wood, leaned in to his lips and licked lightly across them, swept them open with his tongue.

There was a sudden pounding at the door, and they both jumped, panting, stood looking at it until the knocking came again.

"It's next door's witch, leave it..." he whispered, and ran his hand insistently along Doyle's cock again, saw Doyle's eyelids droop and crowded in, opened his mouth again to kiss to him. 

Doyle's phone blared out the theme tune from _Rocky_ , prompting excited voices behind the door.

"That's _so_ retro man - how cool is that!"

"They're there! That's gotta be his phone!"

"Mr Doyle, it's Petra! We were going to do your house by moonlight?"

Doyle pulled away, scowling again and leaving Bodie frustrated, bereft. "You have _got_ to leave my bloody ringtone alone!" he said, and pulled the door open.

o0o

"This cosy little townhouse, in the heart of one of London's most fashionable areas, is the home of William Bodie and Raymond Doyle. As the moon rises gently above the chimneypots, we can cross the threshold and enter the tastefully decorated hallway, moving up their passage to discover what they get up to after their final release – when their day's work is over. And here they are, both busy in the kitchen. William has made them a delicious late supper – something French, something classy – and Raymond cheerfully cleans up afterwards. Yes, their day is just like any other couple's day once they are home alone - almost. While Raymond does the washing up, William mends the stitching on his holster, concentrating on the supple leather bands and the thick elastic that must stretch just so _across his body. He needs it to be tight, he needs it to be firm – the security of the nation may depend on it."_

__

o0o

**Chapter Seven**

Doyle didn't think he'd ever looked forward to Personnel Assessment Interviews before, but the combined efforts of two cultural attaches, the head of MI6, a gentleman who seemed to think he was a Minister-in-waiting and Petra's film crew, had, it seemed, driven him to it. The interviews were confidential, they were private, and they were an occasion in which he didn't need to mind his manners. Much. 

Of course they still involved sitting behind his desk and scribbling on bits of paper, and everyone was so _eager_ to have done well, so _keen_ to be given a good report. Had he ever been like that, way back when he first joined up, a young copper who wanted to make a difference? He had a terrible feeling that yes, he had. Sid had put up with a lot from him, really, and he'd taken it all in his stride, been endlessly patient – even taken him home for Christmas day when they'd been rostered off and he'd had nowhere else to go. 

He also had a terrible feeling that he'd not been half as patient as Sid, when Cowley had begun feeding them young bucks to train on the job – in fact he distinctly recalled young Wallace practically in tears after one dismal attempt at blockading a motorbike with their car. _Couldn't stop a fat man in a thin alley…_

He nodded encouragingly at Mary Yang as she described _what you feel was your most successful operation of 2004_ and stretched his legs under the desk. As soon as he'd finished, as soon as he had Mary determined to make her grade seven call out status, he'd call in Sophie – and Bodie would stop by his office offering lunch, and they could whisk her away under guise of… of being benevolent, perhaps. Of being good, modern bosses, who cared for their employees _as individuals_. It was all in the book now, the things that Cowley had done has a matter of course, hadn't thought needed adding to the small print.

 _"Know that each man – and woman – in your squad makes a difference,"_ he'd said to them once, sage as ever, not long after he'd told them they'd been nominated as co-directors of CI5. _"Not because they make up the numbers, but because every single one of them is just what you are. Not_ were _but_ are."

"…rounds of ammunition fired."

She'd finished, thank Christ she'd finished. "Well, I think that's a good result…" he began, giving her his best. She was a decent kid – not so much of a kid, come to that, she might be keen but she'd been with CI5 nearly three years now, and that was worth twice as many elsewhere. And she did have good results – was worth keeping an eye on. Maybe he'd give her the lead on the next corruption job that came up, she had a good nose for people…

He shook her hand, stood and smiled as she walked out, closed her folder, and pressed the intercomm. "Send in Ms Taylor, please Sal?"

The picture on her file showed a serious looking face, clear-skinned, pretty – nothing else, nothing to indicate the siren that was about to appear in front of him. Sophie Taylor was tall, blonde, and not just slim but spectacularly curvaceous with it. Men fell in her path – generally distracted enough to let her get a good blow in, Bodie said – and on top of all that, she'd gained a first in Biological Engineering. MI6 had snapped her up, then lost her to CI5's better recruitment package, more discreet and promising channels of promotion, of adventure. 

Surprisingly – and best of all - she seemed to have a talent for undercover work, an ability to blend in and ingratiate herself with almost anyone.

"Sophie – good morning!" He stood and held out his hand again as she entered, making an effort to meet her gaze and hold it, not to let his eyes slide downwards. "Sit down, please. You've been here a full year now, and before anything else I want to say that we've been exceptionally pleased with the way you've conducted…"

It wasn't hard to follow through with her assessment, she was another one of their best agents – a little heavy on ammunition on occasion, but nothing that he and Bodie hadn't been accused of in their time. It tended to pass with more experience – eventually. He chatted on, pleased with the way she answered accurately but casually, seemed relaxed with him, even through something as formal as this.

And he didn't look down.

There was a knock, and the door opened simultaneously. "4.5 – you ready for… Oh I'm sorry."

Doyle grinned – Bodie still sounded like a schoolboy saying his lines sometimes.

"I wondered if you were ready for lunch – thought we'd take a break today."

"Yeah," Doyle stretched again, reaching his arms above his head this time, leaning back in his chair. "I'll tell you what – Ms Taylor, would you care to accompany us?"

Sophie smiled politely back at him. "Oh, I wouldn't like to take up your…"

"No – I insist," Doyle interrupted, "Think of it as a reward for your efforts this year. And it'll save me having to stare at his ugly mug over my goat's cheese salad."

"Pizza or nothing," Bodie said, "There's a great new place opened down on Tye Street, let's try that . Sophie, d'you want to get your jacket and meet us downstairs?"

Doyle nodded – they'd go nowhere near Tye Street. " Got your mobile, 3.7?"

Bodie patted his pocket, which Doyle knew meant nothing, and ushered them out of the room. They waved to Sal on the way out, Bodie giving his arm a tug when he would have stopped to let her know where they were going.

"Where's Petra's lot?" he asked, as they took the stairs down, "Whose life are they making miserable now?"

"Barton's. He's taking them around the building to film bits of location or something – then they're with us for the Markney briefing and at the dinner tonight."

"I'd forgotten about that." It'd be another late night, when they needed to be in early again – alright for Horses' Mouth, they'd turned up bright eyed and full of the joys of _modern media_ at half ten this morning – having finally left them alone just before midnight. He'd been asleep before his head hit the pillow. Still, their house had been scrubbed clean for the cameras, just an ordinary domestic night at home and at least he wouldn't have to nag Bodie to do the bins this week – or the hoovering, though they'd no doubt be hearing from downstairs about _that_. And they'd got their _moonlight_ for whatever arty pretentious moments they were planning, so maybe… 

He turned his head to ask Bodie about tonight's guest list, leaping the last two steps into reception, and found himself tumbling, sprawling forwards across the floor. He tucked his shoulder automatically, half-rolled out of it, and ended up on his knees, facing a surprised-looking Sophie. "And that," he managed, "Is the approved technique for making a fool of yourself." He caught his breath and looked over his shoulder to where Bodie was openly laughing, and then towards the small gaggle of television crew filming in front of the reception desk. "And who left _that_ by the stairs?" He gave the metallic case a kick as he got to his feet.

"Sorry Mr Doyle…" Kerri scrambled over, picked it up, and retreated back again, chewing her lip. "You're quite right, it was a terribly dangerous thing to do, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Nothing broken."

"Except his dignity," Bodie broke in, and reached out to dust him down. Doyle pulled away, seeing the way Petra followed the movement, not wanting to give her any more ammunition than he had to.

"Come on," he said, "Lunch."

Bodie was still smiling as he waved them through the revolving door and into the daylight.

o0o

"We've arranged for a room to become vacant in a shared house in Jeckell Street. Oliver Darrow is the man in the house we need you to…"

"Charm," interrupted Bodie, earning himself a frown over the poppadums. 

"… _finesse_ as they say on American telly." Doyle smiled, was charmed in spite of himself when Sophie smiled back. She _was_ good. It occurred to him that he was very glad she was on their side. "He seems like a decent bloke – tall, good looking, hopefully it won't be too much of a hardship. You'll be going in as jobless, fresh from a year out – you did the gap thing yourself, didn't you?"

Sophie nodded. "Three years ago now, but I went to some pretty obscure places, out in East Asia mostly – I should be able to fake it pretty well." She glanced down at herself. "Except the tan."

"Shame we can't send you for a week in the Canaries first," Bodie agreed, his eyes following Sophie's, "But we're a bit pushed for time."

"Oh that's alright, I'll do a quick sun shower in the high street."

"Sunbed," Doyle explained, when Bodie blinked at her. "Safe as cigarettes."

"But a lot more attractive." Sophie smiled again, dimples ducking out at him. "Don't worry Mr Doyle, I'll be careful."

He found himself gazing at her neck, at the line of her blouse, cleared his throat and broke off another piece of poppadum. "With any luck he'll mention that there are jobs going at his company, BioR – I expect you can find a way to ask if he doesn't think of it himself. We've given you a background that will qualify you for two of them, but the one you'll be going for is the Level Coordinator – that should get you into almost every room there."

Sophie nodded, flicking through the pages he'd forwarded to her Blackberry. "Is there anything in particular I'm looking for?"

Doyle shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. We know there's something going on, something the owner doesn't want us to know, but we have no idea what it is. We've got agents in place in all his other companies, but they've not found anything solid, nothing we can use to…" _to nail the bastard_ "…to bring a successful prosecution."

"And – who is the owner?"

Doyle lifted a hand to his mouth, tapping fingers against his nose so that his lips could be neither seen, nor filmed, and spoke quietly. "Peter Merrick," he said, then moved his hand again and grinned broadly, as if he'd just said something particularly clever. 

Sophie raised one eyebrow, quirked her lips back at him. "I see."

"So be careful," Bodie said, voice serious. 

"There's one more thing," Doyle looked her straight in the eyes. "This is a code treble zero."

Her face remained impassive, though she nodded slowly, and Doyle knew exactly how she felt, could remember the way it seared to your stomach and froze your blood. An Operation Susie was an Operation Susie, no matter what you called it.

"You'll report only to Bodie or myself – no one else gets a sniff of what's going on. No one else will know."

"And when do I start?"

"They put an ad in the local paper this morning – we've nobbled it, and we're doctoring a copy so that they'll see it in this evening's issue."

"But no one else will, and I'll be the only person to call – and desperate to move in as my sister says I've got to leave her place now that the baby's been born."

Bodie beamed at her. "Exactly!"

"I've already sent you the code to use for contact – the encryption brings back "Free Weekend Dealing" when one of us has opened it. And if you need to speak to us urgently, attach the code to the usual prefix."

"Right. Is this likely to take some time?"

"Could be – but if we're lucky it'll blow up somewhere else, and be over tomorrow." Bodie shrugged at her. 

"Most probably you'll be gone for a while – you've got your D28 set up to go?"

She nodded. Everyone of her coding had their excuse for vanishing suddenly in place and ready to activate at a moment's notice. He and Bodie had never needed them, they'd had no family to speak of, and they'd moved so often and at such short notice anyway that it was rare they'd been missed, but agents seemed to have more connections now, and stronger, it was harder to simply vanish them into the night without someone getting in touch to report their concern for a brother or sister or best friend.

"Does Oliver have any entanglements I need to worry about?"

"He broke up with a long term girlfriend about five months ago – he should be usefully desperate to meet someone nice by now."

"Right." She put a hand on her jacket. "Do you mind if I leave now, get myself packed?"

"Not at all. Good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

Doyle watched her leave, just one of a dozen admirers in the restaurant.

"Suppose we'll have to eat her biriyani, then," Bodie said, kicking him gently under the table. 

"Yeah." He leaned forward, prodding at the mango chutney with another piece of poppadum. "D'you ever feel like you're nothing but a pimp for the government?"

"Not this time," Bodie reminded him, and he made a face in acknowledgement This time, he supposed, it was on their own behalf. 

Their meals arrived, a steam of spices and sizzling sauce, and they let the waiter serve them rice from the silver tureen, helped themselves to each other's food – and Sophie's.

"The Cow would have done the same," Bodie said at last, through a mouthful of madras, "In fact he did – with us, all the time."

"Yeah..."

"Look, I'm not George Cowley – and neither are you."

"It's not hard to forget that!"

"Ray…"

"Yeah, alright. Sorry." And he was, Bodie didn't need his grief. "Eat up – we should get back too. I want to talk to Petra and her lot again about the briefing, make sure they understand those papers of acknowledgement we had them sign."

"They'll understand them," Bodie said, "It's whether they think they're worth adhering to's the thing."

"Maybe we should hope they don't – we'd have a good reason to kick 'em out then." He sighed. "Mind you, they're like flies aren't they, they'd only come back."

"How's that like flies?"

"Well they…" He looked up, found Bodie's eyes smiling at him. "Alright... _Seamus Heaney_ , get that down your neck, have your little mint, and let's go."

o0o

The TV crew was nowhere to be seen when they got back, and Doyle didn't know whether to laugh or to roar with frustration. He took the opportunity to catch up on telephone calls and emails, to placate this agent and that politician, and half an hour before the briefing was due to start, he set off again to track them down.

"They were with Barton the last time I saw them," Salma said, "But that was over an hour ago now. Would you like me to call him?"

"Get him on the phone," he agreed, "And tell him I want to see them."

But Barton's phone went straight to his answering service, though reception confirmed that they hadn't left the building. In the end he went down and had John flick through the security cameras, and managed to catch the young runner – was it Toby? – on his way back from fetching two cups of coffee. They tracked him through the corridors, found Daisy checking sound in the briefing room, and then a rather flustered looking Tom in one of the meeting rooms with Rafe.

"Get me their phone numbers," Doyle instructed tersely, and then remembered that Petra had called him the night before. 

" _Horses' Mouth Productions is unable to come to the phone just now…_ "

He slid his phone closed and resisted the urge to smash it into the desk.. "Are those two still in the briefing room?" he asked, and John nodded. "Right, I'll go and catch them there – if you see Petra Campanelli, have Sam nab her and bring her up to my office, will you?" As if he didn't have better things to do than hare around the building after a bunch of bloody kids.

Daisy gasped when he burst into the room, and Toby jumped, his hand knocking straight into his cup of coffee and sending it flying towards Doyle. 

"Oh _fuck_... I mean… Sorry, I mean…"

Doyle took a deep breath, brushed drops from what had been a clean white shirt, and managed to do nothing more than glare at him. "Get this cleaned up, and then wait here - _don't move_ , d'you understand?"

Toby nodded, wide-eyed.

"Where's your boss?"

"Petra? She was up in the canteen with Kerri, they're probably still there…"

"Right." He thought about sending Daisy for her, decided it would be quicker and more reliable to go himself. " _Don't move_."

The trouble with the canteen was that it was generally busy enough that he was mobbed with people who wanted to talk to him about one piece of red tape or another, and that anyone he _wanted_ to find had enough cover to slip away in the crowd. He managed to fend off half a dozen approaches with his scowl alone, snapped out answers to three questions between the door and the lounge area, and finally spotted Kerri sitting on her own in the far corner, silver camera case at her feet, a copy of _Gossip!_ or _Scandal!_ or whatever the latest celebrity rag was called, open on the small round table in front of her. She looked up when he sat down, smiled shyly at him.

"I really am sorry about earlier, Mr Doyle," she said. "I'd hate to think I hurt you."

"Oh, it's all part of the job, you're not the first girl to bring me to my knees," he said, managed to smile back. They were just kids, really, and Kerri in particular looked so young, though she must be older than Toby if she was a qualified camerawoman. Or whatever you had to do to become a camerawoman. "How are you finding everything?"

"Everyone's been really helpful, really kind," she said, "Even though I'm sure we're being a nuisance to you all…"

"Not at all – I think we're all looking forward to seeing your programme. Very exciting, being on television."

"Do you really think so?"

 _No_. "Of course. Just mind you get Bodie's best side, or he'll come looking for you."

"I don't think he has a bad side, does he?" Kerri smiled more brightly this time. "He looks really good in the footage we've shot so far. And you do."

He caught her pause, though she'd covered it well. Still, he'd never been the looks in the partnership, though he'd always done alright with the birds, and Bodie seemed happy enough. "He's the brawn," he said, smiling so that she knew he didn't mean it, "Leaves it to me to be the brains of this operation."

"How long have you been together?" she asked, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "I mean – I don't mean to be nosy," she said hastily, covering her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry, my mum always says I'm too romantic for my own good…"

"No, that's fine," he said, though it wasn't at all. "We've worked together for…" He paused, counted back. "…over thirty years, anyway." Thirty years…

"Wow," Kerri breathed, "That's…" She caught herself again, trying so hard not to be nosy that Doyle took pity on her. "What about you? Someone must have snapped you up already."

"No…" She shook her head, looked away for a moment. "Mum says I need to get out more, meet more people, but I'm not very good at that."

"Well, it's bound to happen one day," he said, and wondered if he could get away with " _lovely girl like you_ ". It was so hard to tell, these days, and he didn't want to give her the wrong idea, even if she did know all about him and Bodie.

"That's what everyone says, but..." She paused and swallowed, and when she met his eyes again they were just slightly shiny, and there was a catch, a waver to her voice. "Some things just aren't meant to be, I think."

 _Bloody hell_... He reached out and took her hand over the table, gave it a squeeze and a little shake. "Rubbish - they just take a little longer for some people than others." She nodded again, but she ducked her head again too. "Look at me and Bodie - we both... _met_ dozens," - _hundreds_ \- "Of women before we... settled down." That wasn't quite what she wanted to hear... " Before we realised who we really wanted and settled down... Maybe you've already met him, you just don't realise it yet."

"D'you really think so?"

He tried to sound firm, knowledgeable about things like this. "I'm sure of it."

"Yes..." She smiled at him, though it was a small smile, unconvinced, closed her magazine and reached to tuck it in her shoulder bag. "I'm sorry, I don't know what my problem is today - bad day, I guess. Did you want me for something?"

"All of you, actually - we need to meet before the briefing. Could you track down Petra for me, bring her down to room one-twelve?"

"I think she's out having a smoke," Kerri said, stood up and nodded. "I'll go and find her."

"I'll come with you." He wasn't going to lose sight of them now. "What made you decide to go into television...?"

o0o

_"So what are these men like on a more personal level? They may be professionals, they may be influential, and they may be powerful - the quiet force, the_ enforcers _, the bouncers if you will, behind the throne of Number Ten Downing Street - but would you want to sit down for a cup of tea with them? Would you share your fears, your hopes, your dreams with them?_

 _"This is Raymond Doyle. He's softly spoken, a caring man who takes the time to listen to his agents and to chat with them during those rare moments he leaves his desk - even to comfort them when they've had a rough day. He'll take your hand in his, he'll put a concerned arm around you, he's certainly not afraid to_ touch _the men and women under his command, his control, to offer a kind of solace..."_

o0o

**Chapter Eight**

Bodie pushed back from his desk, rubbed his eyes and stood up. He wandered over to the window, gazing over the rooftops towards the park and it's strip of defiant greenery - grass rain-bright but shining in the pale midday sun. He was looking forward to home-time already. 

They were used to long days, they'd always been used to long days, and last night's London Government Dinner hadn't seemed a particular hardship - apart from the usual brown-nosing shennanigans and jolly japes that went on. What they _weren't_ used to was being nabbed outside on the steps, just as they thought they'd escaped at long last, and being unexpectedly _interviewed_ for another hour. In the January wind. Because the Mansion House looked so _beautiful_ at night with all its lights and it would be _perfect_ if they would just stand _here_ , or here or here... No sense, no feeling, he'd supposed, watching Daisy and Kerri dance about in their hooded parkas, bulky boots and short skirts. They looked a bit like Eskimos gone wrong, and while he generally _approved_ of all that nothingness around their bums and legs, by the time they'd finished he felt like nothing so much as a wee brass monkey, desperate to curl up somewhere warm and go to sleep...

Still - it was Friday, the Markney case was set up and likely to pay off over the weekend, Benny had taken a turn for the better in the Royal, and Sophie should be comfortably installed in her new residence by Monday. Everything was ticking over nicely, and it was entirely possible that they'd get most of the weekend to themselves. That alone was a _result_ and he was knackered enough that he planned to make the most of it - they'd spend it lazily, decadently in bed for as long as he could keep Doyle there, duty be damned.

Not that it was ever hard to persuade Ray to spend time in bed, no matter how much he protested out loud, and that was just something else that... worked for them. 

Simultaneously his computer bleeped a message, his mobile rang from its place on his desk, and Doyle appeared at his door.

"Just heard from..."

He slid open his phone, held up a hand, and Doyle pursed his lips but nodded, closing the door behind him and striding over to the window.

_"Bodie, I need a meet, tonight."_

"Ab?" He swung around to gaze vaguely at Doyle, who'd looked up and frowned at him. Abdullah was supposed to be...

_"Yeah, look - it's urgent. Can't trust the usual channels, I need to see you in person."_

"You've found something?"

_"Something big - but I think Khan's onto me. I've taken a risk calling you, but he's sending us out east to train, and Nadeem reckons we're leaving tomorrow. I can give them the slip on the way to mosque tonight, I've got a set up, but I can't risk the phones again."_

"Alright. Which bus?" 

_"The one six nine, the stop on Fog Lane by the park, five forty-five. They're every half hour, and it should be running late at that time of night."_

"Right. I'll be there." He hung up, checked his watch and looked back up at Doyle. "I've gotta go up north."

"12.1?"

"Yeah, reckons he's onto something big, but they're shipping him off any time now."

"Shit. And he couldn't trust it to the lads?"

Bodie shook his head slowly. That meant there was a leak, or that Abdullah was seriously worried about one. Not a good sign.

"I'll get onto it this end," Doyle said, and Bodie could practically hear the computers speeding up, see good agents tied up watching CCTV footage and listening to taped conversations for hours into the night and further. "If there's a leak we'll find it." 

"Good. I'm going to have to shift to get up there through the traffic." He bent to the desk, glanced at the new email and filed it for later. The Dame was a busy woman herself, but like everyone else she'd have to wait now. "What've you got?"

"Looks like our girl's got her end away already..."

Bodie paused - Sophie? "That was quick work - thought she wasn't moving in until Monday?" He gathered up the bag with his spare kit from the cupboard, made sure he had his Blackberry and phone, and looked regretfully at Doyle. "Meet's at quarter to six. I'll be back late."

Doyle nodded. "Expect you when I see you then. Watch yourself."

"Yeah - and you..." Of course there was one advantage in being forced to leave the office for the grim weather of Manchester in January. "Give my love to Petra and her babies..."

o0o

Unfortunately, it turned out that Abdullah was right - there was a leak, a leak that got on the bus with him in Manchester while Abdullah was detained by a number of young men wearing hoodies, a leak that urged him off again at gunpoint by Southern Cemetery, and then along a winding path past tombs and gravestones, and through a gap in the fence that led to the garden of a house that had a very cold, very damp basement indeed, a leak that - luckily - wasn't quite brave enough to shoot his _ex_ -boss dead, but who apparently had no qualms about letting his quiet but menacing partner hit him very hard over the back of his head with his own gun.

Bodie came to slowly, took a deep breath of dust-dank air, and tried to ignore the pound-pound- _pound_ ing that seemed to throb through his whole body. Holding his head and wincing, feeling blood still sticky between his fingers, he sat up. 

Bollocks. Hamid had been a good agent, there was no reason for him to turn, no...

There was no light either, not a sliver through a window or a crack under the door, but Hamid had paused at the top of the steps to flick on the switch, and before the blow had struck from behind, Bodie had seen a small space, tightly packed with what seemed to be a random assortment of old furniture. All he had to do was feel his way around, find the stairs and get himself out of here. There was bound to be something he could use to pick the lock, even if he couldn't force the door. He stood up slowly, swayed, and reached out automatically. His hand met something soft and unpleasantly wet, but stable enough. A roll of carpet, at a guess, or more likely a roll of mould masquerading as carpet...

Fuck.

He steadied himself, wiped his hands on his jeans, paused in surprise as he felt a very familiar lump in his pocket. It couldn't be... 

His phone slid open, and he blinked at even that much light, alarm flashing to tell him that he had a new note saved and ready to read. 

_Cldnt sv 12.1_. 

And there were coordinates, a full set of coordinates.

o0o

"I thought I told you to watch yourself?" Doyle yanked open the car door and stood glaring at him, and Bodie blinked, rubbed his hands across his eyes and mouth, and tried to wake up. He remembered insisting at the hospital that someone drive him home, that...

_"William Bodie has just returned from a mission that - for him - went horribly wrong. We can't give you the details, but..."_

There was a rush of air and a whirl of woollen coat in front of him, and he watched, bemused, as Doyle strode across to the camera crew and stood right into front of Kerri's lens, blocking everything from its sight. "If you don't back off right now, I'll see you never film so much as an _ants' nest_ again!"

An ants' nest? But the cold air was helping him come to, was reminding him that he was still alive despite his aching head and stiff back. 

"I'm sorry Petra..." Was that Salma sounding so serious, so official, so… media unfriendly? "...I'm afraid that you don't have authorisation to this investigation, and as such we're going to have to confiscate your recording equipment until we're satisfied that your footage includes nothing that could compromise our agents." Frank and Karen, from night shift security, sidled up to Kerri and smoothly relieved her of the camera, and then turned to Daisy for her sound gear. Daisy pouted, but complied, and then the whole lot of them were shooed off towards HQ.

"Abdullah?" he asked, standing up and clinging to the open car door for a moment. 

Doyle shook his head, took his arm and they walked carefully into reception, leaned against the wooden curve of the empty desk. "They found his body a couple of hours ago. Hamid texted in from your phone - bet you never thought your life'd be saved by a _text_ \- but the locals couldn't find him in time."

"Gunshot?"

"Slit his throat."

"Ah..." He closed his eyes, let himself rest against Doyle a little. "He was a good lad."

"Yeah... Hamid was on a plane around the same time, they're going to wait until his lot are into the camp and settled down, then go in and nab the lot of 'em."

"Assuming the coordinates were genuine."

"Could be a bigger trap than we think? If it is then it'll backfire - we've got a scramble on from the nearest base to back us up - Harriers. All firepower."

He shook his head slightly, regretted it. "I wouldn't want to be them. You reckon Hamid'll be okay? He did what he could…"

Doyle nodded. "He'll have to be," he said grimly, and for just a moment Bodie heard George Cowley's voice, sombre but unflinching.

Reception ticked quietly around them for a moment, and then Karen appeared in the lift, crossed towards them to take her place at the desk.

"What are we doing here, anyway?"

"Waiting for a taxi to get you home."

"You're not... What time is it?"

"Nearly five. I'm taking you back and then I'll come in and catch up with Markney."

That'd be right - Doyle never could stay still after something like this. 

"I'm okay - no need for you to come. Bit of a headache, that's all."

"Concussion."

"Again." He shrugged it off. It was a wonder their brains hadn't shaken free of their skulls by now, but maybe they were just harder headed than most. "They realeased me from Wythenshawe with a warning not to drink and drive..."

"Drink _or_ drive, you moron."

"There you go then - everything normal. Get yourself upstairs and find out what's going on, you know you want to. Karen here'll see me safe, won't you love?"

"Of course I will, Mr Bodie," Karen smiled up at them, face made severe by the scrape of her hair into its ponytail, but her eyes alert and kind.

"Go on," Bodie waved a hand towards the lift. "Go and make a start on today - you know you want to."

Doyle nodded. "Alright. I'll give you a call in a couple of hours, you can grunt at me and then go back to sleep."

"That's an old wive's tale, you know. Besides, I've been asleep all down the M6 - ask Sellers!"

"Bodie..."

"Go!" Bodie waited until the lift doors had closed, and an extra five seconds for safety - it wasn't unheard of for Doyle to hold the lift until you thought you'd got away with something and then appear disapprovingly behind you. "Right, Karen - give me a key to one of the Agents' rooms, will you?"

"Mr Bodie..."

"What's it matter where I sleep? And look," he brandished his phone at her, "I'm right here where he expects to find me!"

She looked up at him from under her fringe, lips twisted in a rueful smile. "If he fires me you'll have to pay my rent until I find somewhere else."

"You can have our spare room!" he said with a grin, took the keys from her and made his way to the stairs. He'd have a few more hours kip, safely in one of their own beds here at HQ, and then go and find out what was happening with the case. Cases. With the whole, bloody world.

o0o

When he woke for the third time that day - hazily reminding himself that it was Sunday, not still Saturday - it was to the ringing of his phone, and to Doyle standing in the doorway with his mobile in his hand.

He groaned and let his head sink back to the pillow. "You tracked me down, Miss Marple."

Doyle hung up with a grimace, and the tune stopped, notes dying mournfully away. "Passed Jensen in the corridor telling Mel how he nearly had a heart attack when he heard the bloody _Reveille_ down here. Your own fault for having such a stupid ringtone."

"No one else has got it."

"There's a reason for that, y'know."

"Shut up and shut the door, and come 'ere," he said, realising that he was awake enough to take advantage of the moment.

"I can't stay," Doyle said, but he stepped over and turned on the bedside light, lay down in the space Bodie made for him and reached up a hand and stroked gently across Bodie's forehead. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine. Good pills they give you, these days."

"Yeah... Good. I was on my way to relieve Jax - he's not had a break yet."

He nodded into Doyle's hand, thumb still softly stroking. "Maybe we'll make it home tonight."

"How often d'you suppose the Cow spent a weekend at home?"

"Don't think he cared," Bodie said thoughtfully. He'd seen most of Cowley's flats over the years, and none of them had been places that looked like _home_. They'd been nice enough, tidy, but... empty. "He lived here, didn't he?"

"He might not have if 'e'd had Petra's bloody lot around."

"They giving you grief?"

He felt Doyle shake his head against the pillow. "Nah, not really. Just doing their job - _always being there_. They've been interviewing everyone they can get their hands on - I think they're hoping someone'll crack and tell them about the Manchester op. They're talking about filming at our place again."

"Oh Christ..."

"That's what I said - Salma told me to be nice to them. _'Soonest done, soonest over...'_ "

"Bollocks to that."

"'s what I told her as well. We were not amused..."

Bodie grinned broadly, turned his head and kissed him. 

"What was that for?"

For a thousand things that he'd never say. 

"There's still your birthday weekend to look forward to," he prevaricated. "You know… they'll never spring to fly a camera crew out to Spain or Morocco or somewhere just to watch us not come out of a room."

"Morocco?"

He paused thoughtfully for a minute. "Mind you, they might see me come out now and again… but not you."

His smile broadened as Doyle raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Well it's your birthday, isn't it – got to do something a bit… _memorable_. Hmmn..." He paused again, knowing it annoyed Doyle no end. "I think I'll keep you tied to the bed for the entire weekend – silk scarves, I reckon, with just enough give that I can turn you over whenever I like… Have to make sure we get a bed with rails for the headboard, like that place in Suffolk…"

Doyle remembered that, clearly - his breath caught, and Bodie felt his cock give a twitch through the fabric of his trousers, pressed himself a little closer. Doyle had a good imagination – and he wasn't afraid to use it in bed, in a hundred different ways that left Bodie gasping. They'd had handcuffs that night, it had been the end of a long and bloody op that had left them wiped out and keyed up in equal measure, and despite the fact that Cowley'd sent them to a hotel before driving back to get some rest, they'd managed very little sleep, and finally driven home through the sunrise, the world glowing more gently around them, a different kind of exhausted than they'd been the night before. 

"Stock up on food," Bodie continued, "I'm sure we can think of something to do with dates and honey…" He traced a finger over Doyle's chest, swirling languidly around one nipple, through his shirt, then the other. "Or that yoghurt stuff with mint in it…" He flattened his hand, stroked across Doyle's stomach. "Hummus for when I fancy," his caress lightened, became a touch of fingers again, lower, lower… "Dipping something in it…" He loved that Doyle was breathing shallowly, that he was watching Bodie's face, the way his eyelashes dipped and fluttered as he followed Bodie's finger's path across his own skin, the way his tongue moved to wet his lips. 

"And you think telling me this a week in advance is going to stop me killing Petra bloody Campanelli next time she interrupts my plans for the night?" 

"Well it's better than picturing _them_ naked, isn't it?" Bodie looked up and grinned at him, eyes and mouth wicked, and Doyle grinned back, cuffed him gently across the back of his head. 

"Berk."

Bodie leaned in, whispered in his ear, little huffs of air, hot and purposefully ticklish. "Worst case scenario, we'll have to wait a whole week to get our ends away. So take a deep breath, and imagine yourself tied to that bed, and then imagine calling me _sir_ and being very, _very_ obedient…"

"You're getting _patient_ in your old age, 3.7." He paused, looked thoughtful. "See me as the obedient type, do you?" Doyle turned his head to look at him, maybe meaning to smile his challenge, but Bodie wanted him _now_ , wanted Doyle's hands on him _now_ before...

There was a loud knock at the door.

o0o

_"William Bodie is a hard man. A past that includes mercenary work for any country that would pay a high enough price, suspected gun-running and other activities that would be considered beyond the pale now - and yet his experience was something that George Cowley thought he could use, something in fact that he_ needed _. According to all accounts an astute judge of character, Cowley saw something in this man that he thought was worth saving._

 _"We don't know exactly what their relationship was, but it is now Raymond Doyle that saves Bodie's soul, and perhaps just as often - his life. Together they are certainly Crim Intell Five's longest-serving - longest_ surviving _agents, and have been partners almost since the agency's inception. What was it that drew these men together, that_ kept _them together through the years, and in fact pulled the bond tighter and tighter until now they not only share their work, but also their homelife? Mutual professionalism? Mutual respect and admiration for each other's abilities? Surely something deeper than that - perhaps the love of comrades in arms, something long known between men who share the battle and then turn to each other for comfort and companionship. Perhaps there is nothing more natural, considering their work together, than that they should follow in the ancient tradition of the Greeks."_

__

o0o

**Chapter Nine**

They did make it home on Sunday night, and even slept in their own bed at the same time - but that was the sum of it. He'd coordinated the Markney swoop himself in the end, sending Jax off to his wife and kids, showing a congenial face to the Horse's Mouth camera when they had the release to announce their results - a gun haul worth well over a million pounds. Petra had practically squealed with excitement during her voice over, particularly when they'd been allowed to come on site and film the weapons, and Kerri's eyes had been wide. _Such kids_ , Doyle thought, _such kids_...

By six the next morning they were listening in to the raid on Khan's training camp, the sound of AK-47s and SA80s, of shouts and cries and the occasional scream, and over it all the intermittent roar of a Harrier. They heard the jumbled static and muffled voices of their own forces, paced the floor of the comm room and waited impatiently for roll call at the end of the raid. 

Hamid had survived, though he'd taken a bullet in the arm - _friendly fire_ \- despite the fact they'd been told to watch out for him.

Bodie slapped him on the back and left the room, a slump to his shoulders that Doyle had seen too often, could feel in his own bones, understood unconditionally. The last time they'd seen Hamid, he'd been spinning on the floor at Rebecca's wedding, demonstrating some _retro-eighties_ breakdance move that Doyle had laughed at the first time around. Bodie'd leaned over and whispered in his ear, something about flexibility and the necessary strength in thigh muscles, and Doyle hadn't thought about Hamid again for the rest of the night. 

"Ah, Mr Doyle, there you are!"

"Petra." He took a deep, calming breath. "What can I do for you?"

"You're scheduled to meet with us at nine, for an interview?"

He looked at his watch - it was ten past. "I'm sorry," he tried smiling, "As we said the other day, we're not always able to run things to a tight schedule around here."

"We've set up in meeting room eight, there's such a fabulous view of the river from that side of the building..."

"Great," he gritted his teeth, "I'll be with you in a minute. Why don't you get us all some coffees - mine's white, two sugars."

"Alright." She pursed her lips and turned around with what he could _swear_ was a slight stomp of her Ugg boots. He must remember to tell Bodie to send out for coffee sometime today as well. Bodie...

He made sure the logs described exactly what had happened to Hamid, that they had good recordings of everything available, and that Linguistics had been sent a copy of it all, and went to try and find his partner. 

Salma of course caught him before he could reach his office, and he took a moment to approve this weapons requisition and that holiday request, and they shared a smile when he saw that McKendrick had started his paternity leave a week earlier than expected. He glanced at the pile of expenses he needed to review and grimaced, although on reflection if it was a choice between that and Petra...

"Oh, and the Minister wants to know if you'll be attending the Young London evening this Friday?"

He made a face at her, so that she rolled her eyes in return and looked mock-sternly at him. Friday... If there was any justice in the world, and if Bodie had any idea how to book an aeroplane ticket, he'd be winging his way to somewhere sunny and secluded on Friday night, silk scarves in his pocket - or Bodie's pockets, he supposed. He wondered briefly about swapping the scenario, so that it was Bodie lying back on dark sheets, hands and feet bound to...

"It starts at eight? Petra will probably want to shadow you again, but it would be good publicity."

Fuck - _Petra_ \- and here he'd been thinking about... He twisted his lips to distract Salma from his own distraction. If she was asking him, then Bodie clearly hadn't tried to get tickets through her, which meant there was no chance in hell of it actually happening. Not that he'd thought it would. Oh fuck.

"Tell him yeah, why not." Half nine, and the day wasn't getting any better. "And let Hollywood know I'll be with them in a little while, would you?"

"You _did_ schedule them in..."

"Yeah, yeah." He flapped a hand at her, stopped in at his office to drop off the latest bumpff and scan the news headlines taping across the bottom of his computer, and then, because he was there, to flick through his emails and alerts, make sure there was nothing that urgently needed his attention. Two telephone calls later, it was ten o'clock.

Fuck.

Still, Bodie had to be around somewhere - he couldn't have gone far, he had a meeting with some Colonel Blimp or other at eleven... He wandered out into the corridor, stretching. The place was quiet, even Salma wasn't at her desk. If he didn't _know_ there was no bomb scare on... Where was everyone?

_"No, no - you're going to love this bit!"_

Voices - loud and admiring - from, of course, meeting room eight.

_"Yes! Cracking save!"_

Face wincing in readiness, he peered around the open doorway, into a room that flickered bluely at him. Someone had set up one of the ancient projectors, and dug out rolls of their old training films. Funny how _brown_ everything seemed, how slightly dimmed and dull. He didn't remember the world being so grey, but there was something familiar about it too, something comfortable and... something that screamed _home_ to him.

London, some time in the late seventies he thought, if those trousers were anything to go by - Christ, had he really worn flares _that_ wide? Vague memories flooded through him, sights and sounds and even _smells_. Cowley'd blocked off two whole streets around some buildings that had been scheduled for demolition, had sent them off to stage an Operation Digger - a gang of ten or a dozen somewhere under street level, but with plans to underground tunnels that Cowley'd left _them_ unaware of. 

_No need for that look, 3.7!_ he'd barked at Bodie, _Do you know what's down there? Do any of you?"_. And they hadn't - of course they hadn't. There was an entire world below their London, the London of the streets and the pale, grim sunshine, and newsagents and chip shops. Interconnected cellars and sewers, old bomb shelters and rusting ventilation shafts to and from tube stations that weren't even used any more. _Ghost stations_ the Cow had called them, and come to think of it he'd seen a programme about them just a few weeks ago...

 _"Watch out!"_ someone shouted at the screen, and the room burst into laughter, the unlucky sod - was it Kevin from Tactical? - pushed and shoved good-naturedly to and fro. From the corner of his eye Doyle saw what was happening on the film though, and his heart quickened in memory, in anticipation, in... _something_. Bodie was there, looking incredibly young, Bodie the way Doyle still saw him, somehow, in the place where he _knew_ Bodie, and there was a shadow looming behind him, a figure that he hadn't yet seen...

Except that of course he had. The room hissed as dozens of breaths whistled inwards, gasps that held themselves for just a second as Bodie struck suddenly backwards with his elbow, and his would-be assailant doubled over in agony, then jerked upwards as the same elbow shoved _up_ and connected with his chin, so that his head hit the wall, and Bodie's knee stopped, bare inches from solid impact with the man's groin. Bodie looked down at him, and the camera caught long eyelashes dark against cheeks made paler by the stark underground lighting, and then he moved off to where they could now just see Doyle lingering in the background. 

_"Did you see that?"_ a voice rose against the others, _"Now that is_ style _that is..."_

 _"They were something in their day,"_ someone else said, _"No messing about..."_.

In their day... Doyle backed away slowly, took a breath. They said you never heard well of yourself, listening at keyholes...

He left them to it, waved vaguely at Salma who must only have been in the Ladies' after all, and forced himself to take the stairs up to the canteen, all five flights. _In their day..._

He accumulated three reports from forensics and a promise to have the Bettnam case file returned to him by noon before he'd even made it to the coffee machine, but as he turned around to nab the sugar bowl from its station, he caught a glimpse of dark wool through the very end fire door - the one that led to the stairs that led to the roof. He glanced around, as furtively as he ever had when he was in the field, and backed up until he was all but behind the waxy looking cheeseplant that haunted the far end of the room, the space where no table would fit, where no chairs found their way, then he pressed the bar behind him. He half expected an alarm to scream out - _he'd opened a fire door!_ , but all he heard was the sudden dull roar of traffic, and then there was fresh air blowing cold across his neck, and he was out.

And there was Bodie, leaning casually against the flimsy iron railing that prevented him from falling more than ten floors to the ground, listening intently to someone on his mobile. He saw Doyle, gave him a part-smile, and gestured _on and on and on_ with his free hand. Doyle stepped across to stand beside him, handed him the coffee, and then turned to face the drop, bending forward just a little bit further than he needed to, on purpose, as he always had. Tiny insects of people scurried about their business, Matchbox-sized cars, and a worm of an articulated bus - lives within lives within lives... 

"Alright?" Bodie asked, finally finishing his conversation, and turning to join him. Doyle nodded, and they gazed quietly for a while, passing the coffee back and forth, letting it all wash around them. 

After a while, Doyle tipped his head towards Bodie's pocket. "Get a lot done, did you?"

"You'd be surprised - only place I could hear myself think, up here." He paused, licked his lips. "They've got Hamid booked on the next Hercules out, the doc reckons his arm'll be okay."

"Good." _Good_ things, yeah, god but he wanted to talk about _good_ things for a change… "Benny's come round. He wants to know if we've signed his expense chit from the Reykjavik bash yet."

Bodie looked at him, smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah..."

"We should bring him in, you know."

"Might not have much choice after this - see how it goes I suppose."

"He was made for the streets, though, Benny..."

"Yeah..." Doyle knew it. He'd taken Stuart's place for a while, _the King of South London_ , and they'd been convinced that after that, after what he'd seen in those five years, he'd never want to be undercover again, but it just seemed to make him sound more cheerful, work more determinedly. What would _he_ do, desk-bound? "You know, there's a down-side to _'making an effort to know your agents personally'_ …"

"Yeah." Bodie stared into the distance. 

But of course he'd never known Benny anything _but_ personally, even before he'd met Bodie...

Cheerful things – Benny was alive, and Hamid was on his way back, terrorist training camp destroyed, links frayed if not completely broken. "Wonder how Sophie's getting on," he couldn't help himself asking, felt himself leaning slightly closer to Bodie against the railing so that their arms brushed. He missed doing that, the casual way they'd always been in each other's space, had never thought anything of it, before. He hadn't meant to let the camera crew affect him, affect _them_ , but he was uncomfortably aware that it had. He let himself lean a bit more, and Bodie turned his head, eyebrow raised, opened his mouth to speak.

"Mr Doyle!" The fire door behind them swung back against the building with a dull _thump_ and rattle of its fittings, and Petra appeared behind them. "There you are! We really need to make a start on this interview before you're busy with your agent briefings this afternoon…"

They should have gone to stand hidden around the corner… He twisted his lips into a smile, which Petra no doubt thought was for her. Reduced to skulking on their own rooftops... "Right – right, let's get on with it then," he said, ushering her in front of him, back into the warmth and still air of the building. He glanced back at Bodie over his shoulder, made a face, and tried to resign himself to his fate. Bodie just winked, sliding his phone open again and starting to dial, one-thumbed. Well, at least someone was getting some work done…

o0o

They ended up together in the briefings of course, their faces stern and serious, a professional distance between them, and their firm concentration on the cases. Three were tangled together at the edges, and would be big enough hauls of information and, most likely, weaponry, that MI5 and MI6 both had agents undercover who would touch on what CI5 was doing. Contact must be made, warnings given, none of it interfering with the main work of the operations and none of it interfering with Mr and Ms Public, who mustn't know, who must never know, what was really going on in their midst, for fear they stop concentrating on the _ongoing war on terror_ …

There was a wonderful moment when one of the newbies was heard to whisper a not-quite-quiet-enough question to his neighbour about _al-Quaeda_ involvement and was given the benefit of Bodie's… _explanation_. Doyle sat back and thanked every god he could think of that Petra and her babies weren't around to hear _that_.

"That'd really make a hole in their day," he grinned, as he closed down Powerpoint and flipped his laptop shut. 

"Rubbish! Give 'em the biggest scoop since…" Bodie floundered.

"Since?"

"Oh, I dunno – since Skinny Spice turned out to be fertile…"

"Bodie!" He took a quick look around the room, but it had emptied, and they were alone, so he let himself grin back, amused. "You're supposed to be a respectful member of the community, these days!"

"Respectful be buggered!" Bodie stepped closer to him, "Ve are alone at laast," he said, somewhere between Greta Garbo and Peter Sellers, flinging out an arm and reaching dramatically, so that Doyle imagined being pulled towards him and bent backwards in a dip to the floor. If there was any chance of them actually being _left_ alone, he might even have let him do it, just to see his face when he had to support Doyle's full weight...

"Fool," he said, slipping further away and dodging to the other side of the desk. "You…"

"Sorry to interrupt, Ray, but the Minister would like you to call him back at your convenience?" Salma appeared at the door, half-in, half-out, and clearly in a hurry.

"Thanks Sal." He shook his briefcase threateningly at Bodie, and followed her out of the room.

There were days when it was like a dance, he thought, three steps – sign here – two steps – advice – three steps - _that report, sir_ , two steps… He managed the glorious solitude of his office at last, closed the door and picked up the phone. _At your convenience_ was never quite what the Minister meant…

The door started to open _again_ , and before he looked up, before he'd even dialled he took a deep breath and growled "Not _now_!"

"Sorry sir, ever so sorry, sir…" Bodie swaggered in with a grin on his face, and Doyle picked up his flour bomb desk toy and hurled it at him. Bodie caught it and proceeded to throw it from hand to hand, pausing now and then to take aim at Doyle while he was on the phone.

"Maniac," he said, when at last he hung up, "What if that'd been important?"

"Was it?"

"Bombs set for the PM, destruction of the monarchy, end of the country as we know it."

"Nothing that can't wait then," Bodie decided, and finally threw him the desk toy. "It's worse than being on a diet, this, isn't it?" he added, and twisted his lips in a half smile when Doyle looked up at him quizzically. "You know - forbidden fruit and all that…"

"Is there any chance you can think of something apart from your stomach for five bloody minutes?" Doyle leaned his head back, closed his eyes and wriggled slightly in his chair. But Bodie wasn't far off. "Nah, it's like being a teenager again, desperately wanting it and knowing the odds are high you'll be in trouble if you make any effort to actually try and _get_ it!"

"Ah, you all hot and bothered?" Bodie asked, "For me? Finally, something's rejuvenated my love life!"

"You're supposed to be too old to _have_ a love life, according to that lot out there. Did you know that we were good _in our day_?"

"Yeah well, we were." Bodie didn't sound at all bothered - how could he not care? There was a rustle of paper. "But we're still not bad. And my love life is doing very nicely, thanks to EO91ZZH204."

Doyle opened his eyes at that and frowned, trying to work out what it was before Bodie threw some awful punchline at him. He was looking smug, Doyle thought, so whatever it was would be...

"E-ticket booking number."

"What?" He looked at Bodie properly then, at what he was waving around.

"E-ticket booking number thingie. Booked our weekend, didn't I?" He grinned. "Friday 21st, 7.25pm, two seats to Morocco - whaddaya think of that then?"

"I think if you didn't look so pleased with yourself, I might think you were seriously brilliant."

"Ah, but..."

"Fuck off and come here," Doyle interrupted, reaching his hands high above his head and stretching as sinuously as he could manage, holding Bodie's gaze the whole time.

Someone knocked on the door. 

"Mr Doyle, I just need a minute before you head off to your next meeting?"

"What is it, Petra?" He sagged back into the chair and dropped his head, looked up again to see Bodie mouthing _"Morocco"_ at him, and beckoned the girl in, followed this time by Tom, PDA in hand.

"Well, we've been going through the footage so far, and it's all looking really really good, but we were hoping that we could perhaps shadow you tonight, to..."

"No."

"It's just that the Commissioner is an important man, and it would..."

"No."

"Sensitive information, I'm afraid," Bodie interrupted, perhaps seeing that Doyle's patience was truly worn thin by now.

"Ri-ight..."

"We _do_ still have a job to do, I'm afraid." Doyle tried smiling, had a feeling it came out less congenially than he'd meant it to. _Morocco. Morocco._ "Is there anything else?"

"Tom?" Petra turned to her assistant, for all the world as if she didn't know exactly what she had planned, and Tom obediently reeled off the schedule for the next day.

"We wondered if you might be going out yourselves, this week?" Petra finally said when it was over, the nodding and agreement finished.

Bodie shot him a puzzled look, and Doyle shook his head slightly in response. "What do you mean?"

"Well, just the two of you?"

Oh god, she wanted to film them holding hands over a candlelit restaurant table, now... "We don't have anything planned, but..." 

"Oh good! _Good!_ " Petra's smile was bright, shining, all shark. "Because we thought a party for your fifty-fifth birthday on Friday night - we'll find somewhere flash, somewhere with a bit of bling, and we've already sent the invites to CI5 and your mates, and got the food organised - all you have to do is turn up and look surprised!"

Doyle closed his eyes.

o0o

_Of course, the men who know Bodie and Doyle best are their fellow agents, and in particular those men and few women who were with them in the early days - and have survived to tell the tale. Reginald Jax, now Head of Communications at CI5, remembers case after case, stories from the mid 1970s and through the years to the millennium. Raymond Doyle, he says, started out as a copper in some of London's meanest areas - he came of age on the beat in Chinatown and became an expert in various martial arts, but he took the time even then to start_ "a sports club for black kids" _, to do some good for his community. Esther Lee, once of the Hong Kong Police, is also close personal friend of Ray Doyle, and remembered fondly their first meeting, where they worked undercover together as a couple. He might have moved to Hong Kong, she thought, if he hadn't been so dedicated to his work here, and she, likewise, was determined to pursue her own career."_

o0o

**Chapter Ten**

It was tempting, Bodie thought, to tell Petra _and_ the Minister exactly what they could do with their party, and he didn't know whether to be annoyed or relieved that his phone vibrated in his pocket just at that moment. He answered it, half an eye on Doyle in case _he_ decided to follow his instincts, and listened with a growing frown. 

"There's movement at Howlett's," he said to Doyle before he'd even hung up. "Could be…" he paused, Petra and Tom in his peripheral vision, hanging onto every word, "…indicative of something bigger than we were expecting."

Doyle glanced at his computer screen reluctantly. "I need to deal with… this." _The Minister_. "You wanna go?"

Out of the office? _Yes_. "Alright. Could be something, could be nothing. I'll give you a shout when I get there."

"K team are on standby if you need 'em."

K was Alvarez and Lacey's mob, pretty good in a crunch. He nodded, turned to push his way through the door to freedom, and found himself staring straight into Petra's big blue eyes. Not a bad idea at that, might help Doyle get through the week… "This lot've got clearance for Howlett, why don't I take them with? Should be safe enough, from what Levitt told me – though they'll have to be prepared for a long-ish stay if something does pop up."

Doyle's eyes widened, Bodie could practically touch the emanating hope. But Doyle just glanced quickly at Petra and Tom, nodded casually. "Should be alright."

"But… Kerri's not here, she had to go out…" Petra said, clearly torn, all but biting her fingernails. "We should _so_ go, but…"

"I can work the cam," Tom suggested, seeming to suddenly come alert. "I could do it."

"Alright?" Bodie asked Petra, and pushed past her without waiting for an answer. He heard them following him down the corridor though, the chance to film an actual operation far too good to pass up. He stopped in at his office for coat and keys, let Tom collect their _OB gear_ , and then they clattered down the stairs and out to the garage, he _bleep-bleep_ ed the Merc into action, and they were away. 

"You keep your heads down, you do _exactly_ what I tell you the moment I tell you, and you keep quiet, right?"

"You won't know we're there," Tom assured him from the back seat, and Petra nodded. If Bodie didn't know better he'd think she was nervous, but she set in to clarify questions about the case, and he told her what he could as they wove their way through the early afternoon traffic. Dark clouds had leached what light there had been from the sky, and they drove through orange-lit streets that grew dimmer and grimmer as they approached the houses by the old docks. He parked in the street that ran parallel to their target, itself across the road from Howlett's own building, which stood alone in a wasteland of scruffy yellow grass, surrounded by a low, desultory wall. One day someone would no doubt _develop_ it all and make a fortune.

"Remember – keep quiet."

They nodded again, and from the corner of his eye Bodie saw Tom connect the camera to a pack at his belt, turn it all on. He let him get on with it, led the way through the garden of the house they'd co-opted for the purpose, and then down the narrow cobbled road between the two rows of terraces and into the back yard of number forty-three, tapping out the code on the R/T in his pocket to warn Belle and Levitt of their arrival.

Belle opened the door for them, gestured them in with a smile, and barely raised an eyebrow at the presence behind him. "Alpha warned me Hollywood were on the way," she explained, smiling back as Petra frowned and Tom grinned broadly. "We've just had another bout of movement from Howlett and co, too."

Bodie nodded to Levitt, who stood back to let him peer through the binoculars at the house opposite. "Something's got them excited," he agreed. "Have you got the log?"

Levitt passed it to him. "There's been maybe a dozen of them back and forth for the last two hours, all different men – and about half of them have carried big leather sports bags in, but not out," she said. "There's fourteen bags in there now. Howlett's checking whatever's inside, but he's doing it in the far corner of the room, and the light's not good enough there for our kit to penetrate."

"Who's in there now?"

"Howlett and Crawley, and two guys we don't know. I've sent images to CR, but they've not found anything yet."

"Right. Shame we couldn't get that bug in," he said absently, peering again through the lenses. "Any luck on the lip-synch?"

"Still waiting for results," Belle huffed, sounding frustrated. The boffins never moved quite fast enough, and even though CI5 agents were now sent to shadow in the labs before they were allowed in the field, knew exactly the processes involved and how long they took, it didn't stop them wanting the results more quickly, more accurately, and _now_.

"They're doing their best," Bodie said automatically, being the good boss. Then he glanced up and half-grinned at her. "One day it'll be fast enough."

"We'll be lucky to get anything in that light anyway – dark enough for moles in there." Levitt came to stand beside him, offering him the thermos of tea. Bodie took it absently, and poured himself a cup, strong and sweet enough even for Doyle.

"Can we zoom in on the bags?" He wanted to see, wanted to catch a glimpse of something Belle and Levitt had missed… But there was nothing, no clue, no inadvertently half-open zips. They'd had Howlett marked as an acquaintance of Anghel Iane, a Romanian apparently on the run from his own authorities and heavily into both drug and human trafficking back home - how he'd managed to evade Interpol and end up on their own shores was anyone's guess. Drugs, then, most likely, considering Howlett's own background, for all he swore to his probation officer that he was clean at last. And yet that was alot of bags...

"Sir, there's another one coming now," Belle interrupted and took the tea from his hand so that he could swivel the binocs to follow the man who was ambling, innocently enough, along the pavement towards Howlett's house. He certainly didn't look Romanian, he looked like nothing more than the perfect Chav, from his tracksuit and Adidas to his Burberry baseball cap, sports bag slung over one shoulder. He didn't pause at the entrance to Howlett's, turned straight in, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. He waited casually enough, didn't look nervous - confident or innocent? That was the question...

Howlett himself answered the door, without a smile - he wasn't greeting an old friend then - and he glanced up and down the street before he closed it, but then anyone might do that, especially in a neighbourhood like this, make sure the car was still there, that it wasn't missing its hubcaps or a window or two... They disappeared for a moment, reappeared in the downstairs front room, where the bag was simply placed - carefully enough - onto the growing pile in the far corner. Obligingly Howlett turned towards the window in order to pay the man - how much was that, two hundred? Three? What would that buy you..? - and then they all sat down, mouths moving, too far away for it to help.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he flicked it open, still staring out through the binoculars. Levitt was scribbling in the log book, Belle tapping their report through on her PDA and behind them there was the occasional scuffle of Tom moving around with his camera. "Bodie."

"What's happening?"

"Hard to tell. Could be our man's either collecting from or getting ready to deliver to Iane... Or he could be taking in laundry for all we can tell." He waved Levitt over, surrendered the equipment and moved to one side, still watching through the net curtains.

"Is that it?" Doyle sounded peeved.

"I can pop down, ask him to ramp it up a bit if you like..."

"Yeah, you do that mate - no, better yet don't, leave Miss Media there, tell her she can't come back until she gets a scoop. Those tickets won't be refundable, you know."

"Maybe I should send her down," he suggested unguardedly, had to wave off two sets of hopeful eyes. Belle and Levitt were feeling restless as well, then.

"You staying, or d'you want me to cover the new intake for you?"

Ah, he'd nearly managed to forget their latest batch of shiny recruits were due to him for the traditional pep talk today. "No, I'll be back in an hour or so if nothing else happens here."

"Sir, I think that's..." 

He'd spoken too soon - Iane himself was strolling towards them up the road, cool as anything, and up the path to Howlett's front door. 

"Gotta go..." he snapped the phone shut, reached automatically for his gun, though he stopped short of unsnapping his holster. They watched as Iane knocked, was admitted, and clapped Howlett on the back before closing the door behind them.

"What d'you want us to do, sir?" 

He eyed the girls, thought back to a hundred hundred stake outs of his own and felt their itch. It was tempting to go in straight away, to try and take them all now that a crime had been committed - Iane's _existence_ here was a crime - but there were only three of them and there'd be six inside the house now - all fully armed, most likely. 

"Call for back up," he said at last. "Watch and record. We'll wait."

He waited with them for an hour, an hour of watching Iane and Howlett drink tea and chat, and finally settle down in front of the television, a blue light playing over them all in the dim room, shining teasingly across to the bags in the corner, not showing them anything more.

Finally he leaned away from the piece of wall he'd commandeered, took a reluctant leave. It was unlikely anything would happen until tonight, K team were ensconced carefully and inconspicuously around the area, and he was needed elsewhere.

"Follow him when he comes out," he instructed, unnecessarily if the roll of eyes both girls gave him meant anything. He put on a stern face for the camera behind him, but he remembered how it felt. With a grin inside, he added "And whatever you do - _don't lose him_."

He turned to Petra and Tom. Petra had been bored to death if her fidgeting was anything to go by, although the lad seemed content enough, pottering about with his camera, filming the agents and their equipment, the view from the window, and dozens of angled close ups of peeling wallpaper and damp stains. But Petra would no doubt want them to come back with him - no more reprieve for Doyle. 

"Oh no, we'll stay," she said enthusiastically, after barely an exchange of glances with Tom. "You said shift change was in two hours? We can come back with them."

Bodie looked at Belle and Levitt, amused, but they just rolled their eyes again and waved _whatever_ hands. Well, if it kept them out of his hair, that was fine by him. He gave them all a happy wave, and left without another word.

The traffic cooperated for a change, which was good because he'd forgotten about the new intake talk again. Against his chest, tucked into his inner jacket pocket, he feel the occasional rustle of his scribbled weekend instructions, e-number and flight times and booked hotel room. _Fuck_... Petra'd played a clever card there, organising it all before she'd approached them - she must have known they'd say no...

It was what he would have done. 

Maybe there'd be a later plane... Might as well wish for a Herc to be flying over, and a couple of parachutes.

Fuck.

But Doyle wasn't in his office when he got back, and Salma seemed to think that he was having coffee somewhere with Kerri, who'd been upset at being left behind by the others. 

"I've set up your slideshow and laptop," Salma told him, "Ready for your talk, and there's a folder of messages on your desk."

"Thanks Sal." He gave her a pleased nod - at least she didn't try to email him things all the time like some of the younger staff. It wasn't as if he could pick up his computer and read them in the canteen, or over a cup of tea at the window when they did that, was it? Bloody internet generation...

"We still on with the Commissioner tonight?"

"As far as I know - he hasn't cancelled."

Damn.

"Hollywood tells me they want to throw Doyle a party on Friday," he began, wondering if Salma could fix it all for him. "This week is..."

"It's all arranged, sir," Salma said, sounding efficient. _Brusque_. "I managed to get a cancellation at the Larton Rooms, and Petra has the caterers booked. The Minister," she added, "thinks it's a _very_ good idea."

Double fuck.

"Good - excellent. Thanks, Sal."

He refrained from thumping her desk _hard_ with his fist, imagined Doyle giving it a kick as well for good measure, and managed to get himself into his office behind closed doors before he shut his eyes and pinched the top of his nose. 

Damn, damn, _damn_. 

In his pocket, his phone was going off again, a gentle rumble against his leg. Doyle probably, wanting another whinge about it all. He glanced at it reluctantly - Doyle should know he had his talk to give, he only had five minutes to... It was Sophie.

_"I just wanted to let you know that I'm in."_

"With Oliver? Yeah, that's great..."

_No, to BioR._

He frowned. "I thought the interviews weren't until the end of the week?"

_"I got in this morning as Catering Officer - it was a sure thing, they were desperate, and I thought sooner rather than later..."_

She wouldn't have as much access, but sooner and more certainly had its own advantages. And everyone liked the girl who came around with the cakes... "Great - good call. How's it going in the house?"

_"Oh it's fine, they're alright. We're off out tonight, down the pictures to celebrate. 'Ginger Snaps Back'"_

"Does she? Good..." Well, it was a start. "Keep your eyes peeled, ten-twelve - and not just on the film."

"I'll call again if I find anything. Bye..."

 _Bye?_ 'I'll call again'? Whatever happened to _roger, sir_ , and _out_...? Mind you, he supposed it might be a bit conspicuous while chatting to your mates over the phone. Ah well. He'd go see if he could frighten the newbies for a while...

He could, and he did, leaving the comforting we're-all-in-this-together part of the lecture for Doyle's turn tomorrow. By the time he got out he was feeling slightly more ready to face his partner and the barrage of annoyance no doubt left over from this morning, but Doyle was still nowhere to be found.

"Still out, I think," Salma said vaguely, and Bodie frowned, sent him a text, and settled in for a couple of hours of paperwork.

o0o

When Iane did make a move, it was Doyle who called it in, from the stakeout itself.

"An' you won't believe this - it's Sheehan," he said, glee clear even over the mobiles, "It's only Jimmy sodding Sheehan himself!"

"I'm coming over..."

"Nothing you can do," Doyle said, "Take it in the Comms Room - you'll hear more from there than I can. We've called in all active - he's not bloody getting away from us this time. Out."

And Bodie, of course, was no longer _active_.

He fumed his way down to the Comms room, glaring at Salma as he passed, Daisy and Toby perched comfortably on a corner of her desk, chatting amiably. And where the hell was Kerri, all this time? Off having her hair ironed, or whatever it was they did these days? 

Jax waved him into a station when he got there, and Bodie managed to nod civilly enough at him. Doyle's voice slid to him through the comm system, smooth instructions to Belle and Levitt, to the other agents spread solidly around the area. The locals had been called as backup, and their transmissions chattered away in a background buzz, announcements smoothly coordinated and slotted into the field information by CI5 staff. 

Slowly, gradually, they tightened their noose, and the hours passed, ticking by until midnight, one o'clock.

 _"Levitt in place? Belle in place?"_

Bodie stood up, crossed to loom behind Jax even though there was nothing extra that could be heard, nothing at all to be seen. Stakeout agent's privilege to be first into a bust, if they were fit for it. He remembered those moments, bright and stark as life itself, seconds when the world was saturated with colour, sharp-edged and revolving only around _them_.

There was a brief call-in, as other agents confirmed their locations, their readiness for the final moment.

 _"Right-"_ Cool as a cucumber, Doyle sounded, when Bodie thought his own heart would beat out of his chest. He was too far away, too removed from it all.. _"Go Belle! Go Levitt! K one to five - go!"_

The comms burst into a flurry of movement, shouts and then a crash of the front door being pounded open - he could see it in his head as if he _were_ there - then shots, their own handguns, others - and above them what sounded like a P90. The bastards had a P90...

More shouts, he made out an escape attempt, and one of their own giving chase - couldn't hear whether it had been successful or not. The SMG stopped suddenly, and it could be heard clattering to the ground, giving off a final spurt of bullets - Christ they were the worst sometimes, the most deadly - and then it all seemed to be over bar their own organisational shouts and the odd whimper, that Bodie assumed - hoped - was one of Howlett's injured mob. 

Doyle ran calmly through another call-in, with status report, and Bodie listened to that, lips pursed. One of their agents injured, but knocked out by a fall rather than shot, and Sheehan was dead - no high profile, triumphant march to prison with him then, but maybe that was for the best. They'd keep the news from McKevitt and his lot for as long as they could, though it would leak out sooner or later, and they'd no doubt pretend another martyr for the Real IRA. Iane was safely in handcuffs, and Howlett was whinging on about being scared for his life, and that was that.

Bodie nodded at Jax, slapped him on the shoulder, and listened to Doyle's professional, but increasingly pleased voice as he coordinated the mop up. 

He hoped someone had remembered to cancel their dinner with the Commissioner.

o0o

_"They say you never hear the bullet that kills you, and that must be a comfort to the agents of Crim Intell 5 on a night like tonight, because until just a short while ago, the air was alive with the crack and whine of bullets - mostly from handguns, but also from a single Sub-Machine Gun, or Personal Defence Weapon, commandeered by this gang of international terrorists, and used to savage effect. We can, however, rest easily in our own beds, because once again Raymond Doyle and his colleagues have pulled it off - they have stopped an exchange of guns and explosives that would no doubt have ended up in some secret arms cache, waiting for their chance to maim and kill English civilians in the name of what the Real IRA call the right of the Irish people to the ownership of Ireland. Doyle coordinated this operation himself, and from its very heart - a months-long stakeout that finally bore a very deadly fruit."_

o0o

**Chapter Eleven**

Doyle woke to a stiff back, and to the shooting discomfort of pins and needles down one arm, to the strangely familiar disorientation of having fallen asleep at his desk. How many times had he done that over the years? He'd managed to push back his keyboard at least, so he'd not been woken by the irritated _beep_ of the computer, but he was still clutching the mouse with one hand. He blinked, sniffed, and sat up, wiping his mouth and rubbing his face.

Bodie was standing in the doorway, frowning.

"What time is it?" he asked, sitting back in the chair and stretching, arms, legs, rolling his shoulders and neck.

"Just after eight - Salma rescheduled the Commissioner for half past."

"Oh, great..." What had possessed him to decide he'd finish the report last night before going home? And why..?

"Why were you out at Howlett's last night?"

_Oh._

He took a breath. "Not because I wanted in on it - I took Kerri out there to join the others, was just about to come back when it all kicked off." He grinned, remembering. "We got him though - we got Iane _and_ Sheehan! Didn't expect that..." He took in the still presence that was his partner, suit as impeccable as ever, darkly good-looking in the morning light, and... very quiet, very calm.

"Why in the world would you take a civilian out to an active case when there was no need?"

He blinked, raised his eyebrows. "Because _you'd_ taken the rest of the tv crew out there, and she's best qualified to operate the camera."

" _Two_ other crew members were there, working perfectly well without her."

"Well how was I to know that? They've got clearance for Howlett, we had absolutely no reason to expect Sheehan's involvement - we didn't even know what it was they were _doing_ there! It was a watching brief that went..." Not wrong, definitely not wrong. "...unex _pect_ edly, nothing more."

"All our watching briefs have the potential to turn out _unexpectedly_."

"Then maybe the crew shouldn't have clearance to any of them," Doyle suggested calmly. Bodie was peeved that he hadn't been there, and Doyle didn't blame him, but... "I'd be happy to discuss it with the Minister if you feel that health and safety is being..."

"Don't give me that crap, Doyle - you went into the field _without_ letting me know, on a case you _knew_ I'd just checked in on, and you took a bloody _girl_ with you!"

"She's no more a _girl_ than six-nine is a _girl_!"

"Six-nine is a trained agent, and you can't compare her to a twenty four year old civilian!"

"She..." Doyle stood up, caught the time flashing at him from his computer screen. "I am not having this discussion with you now, I need to get changed and ready for the Commissioner."

"Fine!" Bodie slammed the door on his way out, and Doyle closed his eyes, bowed his head.

Great.

He pulled his tie off - he had vague memories of a dream in which he was being strangled, now that he thought of it - grabbed clean boxers, shirt and socks from the bottom drawer, and his emergency suit from where it hung on the coatstand by the door, and stepped into their shared bathroom. _Our very own ensuite office_ , Bodie had joked, when they first saw it, and had insisted they christen it that week. Twice. Bloody Bodie - it wasn't Doyle's fault he'd got there at just the right moment, and he wasn't going to apologise for one of the few things that had gone spectacularly right from start to finish this week. 

He turned the shower on, stood in front of the mirror and shaved as the steam built up, until he couldn't see his face any more, then he cleaned his teeth, stripped down, and stepped into the cubicle, closed his eyes, and let the water stream across him, head to toes. It was almost too hot, but he didn't care. Bloody Bodie.

He scrubbed and scalded away the worst of his temper, because he knew how Bodie felt, he knew _exactly_ how he felt. If they could turn back time, if he could be that agent out on the street again... Except that he wouldn't, he knew he wouldn't, because as much as he missed it, as hard as it was to stay indoors, somewhere hidden behind the scenes if not actually back in HQ, he'd miss what he had with Bodie, now, even more. 

Maybe the youngsters were right, he had got old, and sentimental with it.

He slammed the taps to cold, to wake himself up a bit more, stepped invigorated and half-shivering onto the bathmat, and rubbed himself dry. He'd woken with a hard-on that Bodie and anger hadn't driven away, but now his cock hung, stunned by the ice of that final blast, and he supposed it was just as well. 

_Tonight_ , he thought, _tonight_. He'd make it up to him with bells on.

Their meeting with the Commissioner took them until ten, and it was straight on from there to his share of the new agent briefings - and no wonder they were looking cowed, Bodie seemed to have put the fear of the ghost of Cowley into them, judging from their questions afterwards, _fascist overtones_ and all - followed by a diplomatic lunch with the ambassador from Klattor, a guest lecture at UCL which he'd prepared weeks ago and promptly forgotten about, an irritating stint in roadworks on his way out to the Training Centre to try and convince the Whitehall mandarins that it was money well spent, and then back into the roadworks.

His phone rang almost the moment he set foot on the steps up to HQ, briefcase banging by his leg, just as he'd been wondering whether to call the awkward sod.

"Ray? It's Soph..."

He slowed his stride, paused at the top of the stairs as if he was taking a last breath of fresh air before going back inside. "Ten-twelve - good to hear from you. Can you talk?" Why was she calling him if she couldn't talk clearly?

There was a pause, a rustle, the sound of a door closing. "Sorry sir, Oliver came in just as I'd dialled - I thought he'd gone out."

"That's alright, how are you getting on? Bodie told me you'd managed to get a position at the company already?" Not so much told as texted, of course - he'd not seen him since the meeting with the Commissioner, and then they'd been focussed on the upcoming cooperative operations.

"Not only that, I've got papers for you - I managed to catch them before they could be shredded. It's amazing what people don't expect of you if you wander around with a tea trolley full of rubbish."

"What sort of papers?"

"I'm not sure exactly - it's pretty advanced stuff and I don't have all the background, never mind the time to read it all. Olly's... attentive."

Doyle made a face. "You okay? You seem to be moving very fast."

"I'm fine," she laughed, "Just fine. I suffer the morning torment of breakfast in bed as stoically as I must."

"Breakfast in bed? Maybe you should hang onto him when this is all over..."

"Don't tempt me - I might just do that... Do you have a preferred drop?"

"Let's try five." Marks and Sparks should be easy enough for her to arrange. 

"Okay. I'll call when I've got more."

"Do that. And love to Auntie Sarah," he added, as Phipps from Liaisons paused barely three feet away to light a cigarette before setting off down the street. Doyle closed his phone, took that deep breath of early evening air, and headed up to his office. She was almost moving _too_ quickly, he thought with a frown, had she really found something, or was she trying to impress? 

He nodded absently to John on reception, noticed that while everyone else seemed to be leaving _he_ felt as if he was just getting into work, and stopped to wait for the lift, on its way up before coming down full of staff and agents going home for the day. If he could find Bodie, maybe they could go out for dinner - somewhere nice and quiet and relaxing, since they'd been deprived of their weekend away. 

Bloody Petra.

"Hello, Mr Doyle."

Another deep breath.

"Kerri, how are you?"

"Oh, I'm alright, Mr Doyle. Wasn't it exciting, last night?"

Last night? It felt like months ago... "Yes, very. Are you off home then?" he asked, despite the fact that she was clearly headed, like him, in the opposite direction, camera case held tightly in one hand.

"Not quite yet. Petra wants me to take some footage of the canteen at night. There's a lovely view there, with all the lights twinkling and the river and everything."

"There is," he agreed, though he'd barely thought about it before. There was a trace of somewhere else in her voice, perhaps she'd not been here long. "You're not from London, are you?" 

"No," she looked amused, combed fingers through her hair. "I grew up in the country actually, the depths of Dorset. I always wanted to come here, though."

"Don't you miss it?"

"Do you miss your home?"

It took him a moment to realise what she meant. _Yes_ , I _am_ missing home, and I want to be there _now_. Feet up, a glass of something good in my hand, and Bodie just there sitting watching tv, or cleaning his gun, or moaning about the state of the laundry. "Up north? No - that was a long time ago. I've barely been back since I joined the Met - years ago, now."

"You're from Derby, aren't you?"

The lift arrived, and he stepped back a little from the stream of people, nodding to one or two, smiling politely at others. "I thought Petra was the hard-nosed journalist of your team - you should challenge her for the job!"

To his dismay, her face crumbled a little bit and she ducked her head, so that she was hidden briefly by all that blonde hair. "Sorry," she said, "I'm really sorry. I'm not really like Petra, you know..."

"No..." he paused and pressed the button for seven, "No, of course you're not." Why wouldn't she want to be like Petra though? "And I can tell you're good at your own job, so..."

A little bit of his desperation must have come through, because she looked up a him with a pale smile, "Oh, I'm sorry, it's just another one of those days."

"That's alright. I'll tell you what - let me buy you another hot chocolate or something," - that had cheered her up yesterday, that and being taken out to the stakeout - "I've been dying for a cup of tea all afternoon. You're having alot of _those_ days..." He hadn't meant to say it, but there was something about her that touched him, something... alone. No one should be left alone like that.

"That'd be lovely, thank you. I suppose I _am_ missing home a bit."

He pressed the button for ten, held it down when the doors slid open at seven, though it never seemed to do much good, gave his office a quick, regretful look. There was no Bodie waltzing past, and since he still had to make up for things from this morning, he had a feeling that _waltzing_ wouldn't be quite the right word anyway...

"Whereabouts in Dorset do you live?"

He let her chat away as they glided upwards, nodding encouragingly, passed her his briefcase and sent her to choose them a seat as he threaded his way through the mass of deserted tables to the drinks machine. He poured her a hot chocolate, added a handful of tiny pink and white marshmallows from the jar - because girls liked that sort of thing, didn't they? - and then made himself a mug of strong, sweet tea. She had, of course, chosen the sofa furthest away, in the far corner of the room beside the sweeping view of London in the evening, so he tucked teaspoons and packets of biscuits into his jacket pocket, and made his way across. 

"There," he said, producing Jaffa Cakes and Penguins, and sitting down beside her, "They say chocolate makes you feel better, don't they, so I thought twice as much should do twice as good."

She smiled at him more brightly this time, and he swallowed a sigh of relief at having got it right. She didn't _look_ like she was the sort to be constantly on a diet, but...

"Thank you - you've been so nice, and I know we're such a bother to you..."

"You said that the other day. What's really wrong? Talking about things helps, you know."

She ducked her head again, stirred her hot chocolate. "Oh, I'm just being silly. My parents have just got divorced, and... I suppose I feel a long way away from them, and... well, there was this guy as well, and... " She looked up at him, eyes wide and blue. "Did you ever do something that you really wished you hadn't? Lost someone that... that could have made such a huge difference to your life, that..?" She trailed off.

"I think everyone has, hasn't..." He caught the look in her eyes. "Yes, more than once."

She nodded. "Me too, and... and that's why I came away, you see, really, but..."

"Hearts do mend," he said gently, "It never seems like it at the time, but whoever he was..."

"I don't know if it was a _he_ ," she said, "I don't even... I can't even call it a _he_ or a _she_ , because I never _knew_..."

Ah... Poor kid.

"Oh, I see..."

"You don't approve, do you? I didn't want to, but..."

"No, no..." Christ, how had he managed to get himself into this? "I just think that must have been a terrible thing for you. But... It was almost certainly the right decision for the time you know, and it's a mug's game regretting decisions you made in the past." And that was pure Bodie, that was.

"Oh I know, but... It's nearly a year ago, you see, and so he - it - she... _Oh_..." She leaned forward suddenly, and he raised his arms automatically, caught her and let her cry, quiet, gentle sobs, though they showed no sign of stopping. He looked over her head at the empty canteen, half-hoping that Salma or Rafe or someone better in this sort of crisis than he was would walk in, but they were alone. 

"Alright, alright..." 

"I'm sorry," she snuffled against him, "I'm really sorry..."

"It's alright," he said again, and maybe it was, maybe it would be. The anniversary of her abortion couldn't be a nice time, and she was very young for it. Where had he been at twenty four? On the force, not even partnered with Sid yet, green as green in some ways, though in others he'd probably been older than Kerri would ever be.

Her sobs lessened after a minute or two, her hold on him not quite as desperate, and he moved his own arms, ready to let her go, turned his head and caught a glimpse of Bodie at the canteen entrance. He'd just raised a hand to beckon him in when Kerri lifted her head, looked softly into his eyes, then leaned in quickly, suddenly, and kissed him. She moved too, straddling him as he sat there, so that his hand was suddenly full of the warmth of her hip, and she was pressed against his chest, his legs, his groin, her breasts full and soft, her thighs tight against his.

It had been a long time... years even... God...

He managed to pull away, to separate his mouth from hers, though she had one hand on either side of his face, was moving insistently against him. "Kerri... No. _Kerri!_ "

She gasped, sat back on his lap, looked at him, eyes wide. 

"Look, Kerri, I'm..." He was breathing heavily though, and she must know he was turned on - what man wouldn't be after _that_? "Kerri, I'm as good as _married_."

"Oh... oh my _god_ ," she said, hands over her mouth, scrabbling backwards suddenly to stand up. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I don't know what... I don't know..."

He swallowed, managed a deep, steadying breath, and caught her hand. She froze, and he held out his other hand in case she thought he was trying to drag her back. "It's alright," he said again, "It's okay, just... Just sit down, okay?"

She stared at him, deer in the headlights, then let him tug her around to sit back on the edge of the sofa. He sat forward himself, his knees very clearly between them, a _barrier_ between them. 

He took another breath, nodded at her. "Grief can do funny things to us."

"Yes, but... I didn't mean... And I thought you liked me..."

"I do like you, Kerri, but... I'm with someone."

"But he's... but you were..." Her eyes darted to his groin, and then back up to meet his eyes. "You're not just gay..."

 _Fucking hell..._ If that _had_ been Bodie he would have been laughing his head off now. 

"What I am doesn't make any difference, I'm committed to someone. And you're... You're young enough to be my daughter!"

"I like older men..."

This had to stop now. "You're just saying that because you've had a bad experience with someone, but they won't all be like that. Look... " He thought frantically, "Look, why don't you call one of your friends, get them to come and take you out for a drink..."

She shook her head, sniffed once and then stood up. "No, no... I'll just go home. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a fool of myself, and... I promise I won't make trouble for you, I'll just..." she gestured vaguely behind her towards the door.

Trouble? That hadn't even occurred to him, though now he thought of it there were as many CCTV cameras up here as there were in the rest of the building, so it _wasn't_ something he needed to worry about. 

"Let me ring you a taxi, at least..." But she was gone, in a flurry of coat and a swirl of hair, so that he sat back on the sofa, finally on his own again at last.

o0o

_"Of course, it hasn't always been happily ever after for William Bodie and Raymond Doyle. Once upon a time, as much younger CI5 agents, they were normal, red-blooded males with a gaggle of women happy to follow in their train. William's romantic past has involved few women, but Marikka Schumann, the German actress, was sadly shot dead in mysterious circumstances some years ago when she betrayed her country and her husband, director of a number of well-known but propagandist German epics in the 1970s. Raymond has also fared badly in his love life – rejected by Ann Holly, daughter of Charles Holly who is currently serving a twenty five year sentence in Wormwood Scrubs, he was apparently unable to form another, stable relationship. It is, perhaps, no wonder that these men turned to each other for companionship in their advancing years. Have we seen inside them? Let's take an even closer look..."_

__

o0o

**Chapter Twelve**

Bodie took himself out with the lads that night, in a desperate effort to head off the tension headache he felt pounding over his left eye. He knew there was nothing going on with Doyle and that little cow, Kerri, he knew that Doyle hadn't usurped the Howlett case, and most of all he knew that they probably needed to spend some time together, but... He really didn't want to. What he wanted to do was to get mildly drunk, pour himself into a taxi, and go home disgustingly late. Fuck today, fuck tomorrow, and... fuck it all.

He left the clubbing to the younger members of K team - he was neither that stupid, nor that undignified and _he_ didn't have a week off starting tomorrow - and was home before one, sliding into his side of the bed beside a sleeping Doyle, no doubt smelling of beer and... well, not smoke any more, those days were long gone, but unpleasant enough that he'd be safely left alone. 

_Bastard_ he thought, as he slid off into sleep, and when he woke the next morning, Doyle was long gone and the headache was still there. 

He took himself out to the Marks and Spencers drop rather than appear at the office before nine and deal with Doyle's sarcasm, found Sophie's papers tucked into the base of the New Year Sales display easily enough, and slid them into his coat pocket. His first appointment wasn't until eleven, so he parked himself in a proper caf that served bacon and eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes, and tea in decent-sized mugs, and settled down to read.

The papers meant absolutely nothing to him. 

There were journal articles - or at least what looked like draft journal articles for some scientific publication - a dozen or so scribbled pages of notes, and lines upon line of what looked like genetic code. He'd have to hand them over to the boffins for translation, they weren't going to do anyone any good as they were. He reached instead for an abandoned copy of the _Daily Express_ , settled back for fifteen more minutes of breathing freely before heading off to HQ, and...

Fuck.

_James Docherty Sheehan Shot Dead In Police Action._

How the _hell_ had that got out so quickly?

He pulled out his mobile, took a breath, and speed-dialled.

"You seen the papers?" he asked quietly, before Doyle could say anything. 

"Couldn't miss 'em. How the hell they got hold of that with the D-notice in place..."

"Someone lurking at the scene? Someone we didn't see?"

"That the royal _we_? No there bloody wasn't! Well," he added fairly, because he was Doyle, "I dunno, maybe there was."

"Or maybe we've got another leak. It's felt strangely damp around here lately." Merrick, Khan - now Sheehan... Coincidence, or had they got sloppy somewhere along the line?

"Where are you now?"

"In town - I've got Soph's papers, can't make head nor tail of them."

"Get 'em to the lab," Doyle suggested redundantly, "See what they make of them. Bodie..."

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry about the other night, alright?"

"Yeah, I know..." There was a pause, a quiet between the satellites as they both just _were_. "It's been a long couple of weeks."

"The longest. And we should have been on a plane Friday night, too...was looking forward to that..."

"Tell you what, we'll have your birthday early instead," he offered, "Take you out to dinner tonight, an' I'll bring you a cup of tea in bed tomorrow, an' all."

He heard the huff of air that was Doyle snorting into the phone. "It'll never happen," he said cynically. "We'll have a coffee when you get back in a bit, how about that? And I'll send Simon out for some of that cake you like."

"You're on. I'll bring you indecipherable scientific papers and we'll call it a fair swap..."

 _There_ he thought, queuing at the till to pay, he'd known it'd be okay, it always was. Doyle hadn't meant the Howlett thing, and Kerri was just another confused kid, and... Doyle was Doyle, too soft for his own good, no matter what he said. 

He caught the Tube across to HQ, pottering happily among the mid-morning tourists and locals, feeling his headache fade into the background. He'd have coffee with Doyle when he got back – how _civilised_ \- a quick chat to Adlem from army liaison about a planned joint training exercise, and then he was off to play with PP-2000s with a couple of the teams. Even if he _was_ taking Hollywood with him, it wasn't such a bad day ahead of him…

Of course by the time he got back Doyle had been called away to calm an irate attache from Khatan, and Adlem was fifteen minutes early. He made the best of it, insisting that they have their discussion over a decent lunch somewhere, knowing they'd both be working it off that afternoon on their respective courses. It was no good telling kids the right way to do something if you didn't show them how easily it could all go wrong as well – or at least that was generally how he explained it to them when he'd had a good go with whatever it was they were trying out. The 2000 wasn't something he particularly enjoyed using, but it'd be interesting to see what the agents made of it – and you never knew when it'd be something like this that you had to rely on to save your life, when your own weapon was gone and you were down to the dregs…

He passed a harassed looking Doyle just coming into his office as he shot off to the Centre, Petra and company trailing in his wake so that he couldn't even stop and give him a conciliatory pat, or squeeze his shoulder, or… anything. In fact… He thought about it, as he strode down to the garage, Kerri walking backwards in front of him, camera running the whole time, Toby behind _her_ to guide her way. He'd have laughed, but he seemed to have somehow got used to it over the past week or so. But when was the last time he'd even _touched_ Doyle? Sunday night, when they'd slept together after that knackering weekend? Barely… And the other day out on the balcony didn't count… 

Too long, definitely too long. It's not that they were kids, it's not that he _had_ to have Doyle any more, but… Still, it'd been too long.

Tonight they'd go out to Luigi's, have a quiet meal, a decent amount of red wine, and back home for... some touching. Definitely some touching.

"Bodie?"

"Salma..." He thought he'd missed her, but there she was, down by Reception, talking to Angela. "How are you?"

She ignored him. "Sir John has had to cancel your meeting next week, he's off to the Middle East, so I've slotted him in for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock, his club."

 _No..._ "Sorry Sal, no can..."

"And he says that Horse's Mouth are very welcome to come and film there, he'd be delighted." She smiled, pleased, no doubt, with her good work.

"He might be del..."

"He's ordered you all the fish - apparently it's very good. Eight o'clock." She turned back to Angela, and they peered together at Angela's computer, deep concentration. It was all Bodie could do not to stride over and tear it from the desktop.

"When she said _all_ , Mr Bodie," Daisy piped up beside him, "Did she mean..."

"Yes..." Yes, she fucking did.

o0o

He took it out on the teams at the Centre, of course, and on himself – pushing on through the mud and the muck of the assault run, so that he came a very creditable second for time and accuracy, _and_ was able to use that to point out how much experience counted when they were up against someone they'd dismissed as _past it_ just because they were over forty – or thirty, for that matter.

They rolled their eyes in exactly the same way he'd rolled his eyes twenty years and more ago, and _then_ he felt old. 

He set them off on a dozen laps of the perimeter, and claimed old man's privilege by striding off to the showers, luxuriating in the heat and steam, and refusing to look at the scattering of silver hairs that surrounded his cock.

His phone went as he was towelling himself off, and he leaned back against the lockers to talk to Doyle, naked and vaguely aware of Tom wandering around with the camera again, past caring.

"Did you keep the cake hot for me?" he asked, closing his eyes and managing a smile.

"No point – I'm off to Bremen tonight…"

" _Bremen_? Wait – the security conference? I thought Jax was off on that?"

"You remember Demarion?"

Bodie frowned. "His _grandson_?"

"Demarion's come down with – wait for it - _chicken pox_."

"But…"

"And who's had Demarion staying with them while his mum's on holiday in Cyprus?"

"Some pillock who's never had chicken pox?" Bodie hazarded. "But why do you have to go?"

"Demidov's going to be there, isn't he."

"Ah…" Bugger. They'd been trying to set up a meeting with him for months. "You mean I'm going to have to talk to Sir John on my own?"

"You're a big boy, now," Doyle said, "Besides, from what I hear you won't be alone – you'll have all of Hollywood to keep you company."

"Yeah, great… Thought you were going to keep me company…"

"So did I. Duty calls, and all that. I'll be back early Friday."

"You'd better be – can't have your birthday party without…"

"Now there's a thought," Doyle interrupted, and for a moment Bodie was tempted. If Salma could change Doyle's ticket from Bremen to…

"Better not," he said regretfully, "There's still you-know-who to consider."

"Speaking of _whom_ , Auntie S has been on the phone again. I'll pop down later and collect the shopping."

"Bloody hell - it's all go with her, innit!" 

"Yeah. I'll see you when I see you, yeah? Friday morning at the latest."

"Okay," Bodie nodded, not wanting to think about it, pushing away from the locker and fishing in his bag for pants and vest with his free hand. "I'll stop in at Sainsbury's and buy some hummus and honey for dinner on Saturday then."

The last thing he heard, before sliding his phone off, was Doyle's laugh.

"Get everything you need?" he asked Tom abruptly, seeing him still lurking in the shadows, and had the satisfaction of seeing the lad jump.

"Just… um… background for…"

"If _one indecent shot_ appears in your documentary, I'll personally sue you for invasion of privacy – got that?"

"No, honestly, I promise, I didn't…"

"What about some nice shots of the swimming pool again?"

"Um…" Tom nodded and sloped off, looking guilty as hell about something. Bodie was fairly sure it wasn't actually his body Tom was interested in – he'd heard him chatting up Orianne in the canteen the other day – but there was something going on there.

By the time he was dressed, had taken the time to check on Benny and Hamid at the hospital, and to check in with Salma, the first of his teams were beginning to straggle back in. He took pity on them and sent them to the swimming pool, sauna and changing rooms - _in that order_ \- and made his own way back to HQ. 

Was it worth trying to go home for an hour or so? Probably not… He detoured down to the labs, cornered Peter Kuo at his desk where he was surrounded by a sea of paper.

"You're making me feel guilty," he lied with a smile, closing the door behind him and sitting down. "Have you had a chance to look over those papers I gave you this morning?"

Kuo sat back in his own chair, pushing his glasses more firmly onto his nose, and nodded.

"I have. Where are they from?"

Bodie shook his head slightly. "A… research facility that we're interested in."

"They're very interesting papers."

"In what way?" Bloody boffins – get to the point…

"Well, they're looking in some depth at the IRES function in neuronal cell types, which depends on... "

Bodie blinked at him.

"You see, there's an interaction between the poly(A)-binding proteins that..."

"Kuo..."

Kuo took a breath, seemed to re-think his words again, and settled for "I think this could be big."

"What do you mean, _big_? Big as in long words that no one cares about until you've got a new flavour for cornflakes, or...?"

"Big as in... if this is right, if these results are what they appear to be, and if they're genuine..." He shook his head. "There are groups that would kill for this."

"Do they look genuine?"

"It's impossible to tell right now. You said there's more where this came from?"

He glanced at his watch, nodded. Hopefully it was already safely in Doyle's briefcase.

"If you can get us the data, if we can track the connections that they've made..."

"Alright. How many people have you got working on this?" 

"Liu, myself, Becca..."

"Keep it that way for now - but the sooner you can tell us more..." It was entirely possible that people already _had_ died for this. Had they cracked it, was this Merrick's big secret? Some... _scientific breakthrough_? The next step on from Viagara, no doubt, or something to hide the amount of alcohol in your system, or… could be anything.

He wandered over to see how they were getting on with the car from the Peckham drugs bust, cheerfully getting in the way and chivvying them along, the PI someone he'd known for years and years. They'd had Hollywood down amongst them, asking questions, looking for close-ups and interviews and so on – and what did Bodie think about them really? Bodie deigned to reply beyond pulling a face, and being heavily, sarcastically diplomatic about their place in CI5, and then took the stairs up to reception and, hearing Doyle's voice in his head, on up to his own office.

"Do you have time for a quick chat, Mr Bodie?" Petra was lounging by Salma's abandoned desk, chatting, apparently, with Rafe.

"With or without camera?" he asked wearily, because he _did_ have time to kill, though he'd been hoping to clear some of his own backlog of paper and more ethereal email bumpff. 

"With?"

He glanced at his watch. If he could put a limit on it… "Twenty minutes in my office, how about that?"

"Perfect," Petra smiled at him, just an ordinary, pleased twenty-something, and he thought back to the days when that would have drawn him like a moth, smiled back at her, because he didn't miss those days, not at all.

She ran next door to collect the others, and he took a moment to check his emails, nearly sitting on the papers that Doyle had somehow managed to leave on his chair, more indecipherable codes and formulae and tracts of scientific gobbledigook. He grabbed Rafe before he could set off home, sent him down to Kuo with it, and leaned back wearily in his chair. There was a brief email from Doyle, safely arrived in his hotel and about to head off for an evening's networking. At least it might be over a decent pint, he thought, or a vodka or five, if Demidov was around early and lived up to his reputation. Trust Doyle to nab the cushy number…

Well, maybe he could torment Hollywood for a while, he thought, as they trooped in and started positioning themselves, maybe that'd put him in a good mood to be polite all evening with Sir John…

"Do you think we could have you in that corner, with just a glimpse of the night lights for atmosphere?" Kerri asked politely, somehow shimmering her bosom at him, as she gestured with the camera, and he nodded, pulled his chair backwards as directed. _You can't have me at all_ he thought, _not at all…_

Of course it wasn't as bad as he expected – it never really had been, if he was being fair. They asked him about various operations that he could or couldn’t talk about, about his rise to Co-Director of CI5, and how he'd felt about it, about when he'd started working with Doyle. He felt himself stiffening slightly, as Petra asked, very politely, when they'd first met, what he'd thought of the idea of working with an ex-Met copper, and then when it was they realised their relationship had developed further than that. He managed not to bristle, fobbed them off with the date that they'd moved in together, and breathed a sigh of relief when Petra took herself off to the Ladies after only a quarter of an hour, and Kerri sent Toby out for a new battery pack. Five minutes reprieve, and then their _twenty minutes_ would be up anyway… He stretched back in his chair, and pulled out his phone to check his messages.

"Is it true you used to call him the "bionic golliwog?" Kerri asked, as she fiddled with cabling on her camera, moving it slightly on its tripod.

Bodie grinned reminiscently. "Amongst other things, yeah - who told you that?"

"One of the agents you worked with, I think. I thought it was funny at first, but then Tom told me what a golliwog was… isn't that a bit _racist_ , Mr Bodie?"

Racist? _Oh Christ..._ "I can assure you that I have every respect and admiration for Lindsay Wagner - fine figure of a woman."

"Who? No, I meant..."

"Golliwogs were _toys_ when I was growing up, Petra, they were never anything more than toys. Toys that I was very fond of."

"But..."

He raised an eyebrow at her, dared her to carry on. He'd be buggered if he was being accused of _that_ nowadays. "Did you have one of those – what's she called - Barbies when you were little?"

"Of course I did - every girl did."

"And some boys - of course..." It swept straight over her head. "What about Sindy? Those _Bratz_ things with the weird heads?"

"Ye-es..." She sensed a trap, was looking at him cautiously.

"Black ones?" 

"My Petronella was black."

"Asian?"

"Well, no, but..."

"East European?"

"They'd be the same as Barbie!"

"Would they? They're not American..."

"Well no, but... I don't think you understand what I'm trying to say."

"Oh, I think I understand all too well, Kerri." 

She smiled suddenly, disarmingly, and looked up at him through her fringe. "So is Ray _your_ golliwog that you're very fond of, then? Bless..."

And just like that, his headache was back.

o0o

_Our investigations so far have taken us right into the heart of CI5, and into the home of its Co-Directors, William Bodie and Raymond Doyle. We've seen where they work, where they train and where they live - tonight, we're reaching in to see what they're_ really _made of, these men, these hard men, who say that they are people just as we are. January 21st is Ray Doyle's fifty-fifth birthday, and we have arranged a little surprise for him - a party, a single night in his hectic life where he can take the chance to relax with friends and colleagues - and perhaps renew some old acquaintances..._.

o0o

**Chapter Thirteen**

Doyle's plane landed on Friday to a sharp, gusting wind, and he pulled his coat tightly around himself as he made his way from Arrivals to the carpark and back to HQ itself. It was still early, barely light yet under rushing clouds, and he felt grit-eyed, awake before he should be, but his bed in the sleek and modern hotel had been hard and cold, his thoughts rushing with Demidov's apparent confidences, and it had made sense at the time to bump his flight forward. London was an old friend, cold maybe, and looking a little tattered around its end-of-January edges, but comfortable and, somewhere in its depths, containing Bodie.

He fought the early traffic, wondering again if the congestion charge had had _any_ effect at all, and pulled into the garage with a sigh of relief. Angela was still on reception, Salma was already at her desk, and there were too many files in his in tray. What ever had happened to the paperless office the secretaries had screamed about, way back when? 

He paused in the middle of taking his coat off. Christ, it had happened - dot on time, he was turning into a Grumpy Old Man... Come to think of it, he had a feeling he was probably older than half of them anyway - he had to be older than Jeremy Clarkson, didn't he? And that Arthur Smith bloke, even. _Fifty five…_ Not Geoffrey Palmer, though...

There was a knock at the door and Salma appeared, brandishing an extra large coffee cup, and something in a paper bag that smelled warm and sweet. 

"Happy birthday, sir - coffee and croissant, courtesy of Simon."

He stretched his lips, hoping it looked more like a smile than it felt. "Thanks Sal - you're worth your weight in gold, you are. And Simon."

"Are you sure you shouldn't have caught up on some sleep before you came in?" she asked, tilting her head to one side consideringly. "You look exhausted."

"Too many people to talk to, not enough time. Knew there was a reason I'd fobbed this one off on Jax..." And of course he hadn't bothered to go home, because... "Any sign of Bodie?"

"He had to go back up to Manchester yesterday - a meeting with Special Branch about their new unit? He said he was going to stay overnight, take a look at the Torrillos while he was there, and be back before you were?"

"I got an early flight. I thought GMP Special Branch was next week?" Doyle's heart chilled a little at the idea of Bodie back up north, particularly if he was going to check in on those bastards…

"No, they cancelled it last week and had been hoping for next, but..."

"...but heaven forbid we should have more than a day's notice of anything around here." 

She curled her lips in commiseration, passed him yet another file, and strode off back to her own desk. 

Bodie would be fine, he'd probably just check in at the stakeout, wouldn't go anywhere near their man undercover.

Bodie would be fine.

He took a breath. How had Cowley managed all this on his own, he wondered, opening his emails and wincing. Of course the Cow hadn't _had_ emails, and CI5 had been so much smaller back then. Had there been that much less crime, or had they all just got away with more?

He spotted a message from the Dame, sighed and clicked it open.

o0o

He stopped for more coffee around ten thirty, wandering down to their little kitchen himself, blinking and yawning, backtracking when he spotted the continuous row of posters featuring pictures of himself as young as – bloody hell, where had they got that one of him at school? He narrowed his eyes at them, memories running riot for a moment. It wasn't Bodie's work, not unless he'd unexpectedly got back in the last hour or so… Jax?

"That'll teach you not to bring me any grapes."

"Benny!" Bloody hell, it was Benny, face pale but smiling, one arm in a sling, advancing on him slowly from the newly arrived lift. "Do they know you're gone?"

"Nah – Nurse Geraldine's eloping with me, I just stopped in to pick up my last pay packet."

"That'll get you as far as Gretna, will it?"

Benny grinned, leaned against the wall opposite the posters, and punched him lightly on the arm. "No good asking my boss for a rise, he's a mean old bastard."

"Older today," Doyle said, looking again at the posters. "Did you do this?"

"In collaboration…"

"I knew it – bloody Bodie…"

"…and a few mates from the old days. You wait until tonight – you'd not believe who they've dug up."

"Ohmygawd…"

Benny grinned again, and they wandered down the row of pictures together, now and then detouring around some fascinated young soul or other, who was peering at them in fascination and clear amusement until they realised who was behind them and ducked suddenly away. 

Eventually Benny wandered off, and Doyle rinsed out his cup and returned to his office, wondering if he could get away with napping at his desk now that he was officially and _famously_ old. He called Bodie instead, listened to his mobile ring out, tried not to imagine the worst scenarios.

He was probably driving, on his way back, hadn't bothered with his hands-free. Except that, being Bodie, he would have picked up anyway... He'd turned it to silent to meet with Joe, and... But that would mean that he'd gone in and _met with Joe_ , and that wasn't what Doyle wanted either.

Oh Christ, Bodie was a big boy, they were both due a share of the bad luck that had had him taken by Khan's mob, it was more of a wonder that it hadn't happened more often and, finally, fatally, when they were younger. 

Fuck.

He dialled again.

There was still no answer by the time he had to meet with the Budgetary Committee, though he used the temper he'd worked up to good effect in discouraging the mooted delay to staff pay rises _and_ in seeing off Horse's Mouth with a single sharp glare when they would have greeted him in reception as he came back in. 

There was still no answer by the time he headed home to get changed for the party, no phone call, no email, not even a text, and all the boys in Manchester could say – after a sarcastic _Lost him at last, have you?_ \- was that he'd left them around ten that morning.

No accident reports. It was too soon to check the hospitals. It was too soon to do _any_ thing, except worry. He caught the Tube back, walked quickly through the park and down the street, holding onto his phone, willing it to ring. There was no Merc there waiting for him, and he almost carried on past his front door, would have perhaps, up and down an extra street or two, if only to work off some nervous energy, but that wouldn't help either… Bodie'd turn up at the do, no doubt, looking scrubbed and debonair as ever, not a hair out of place, not a thought for anyone else…

Bloody Bodie.

o0o

He was half-dressed in the bathroom, splashing on aftershave, when he heard the front door slam, and then footsteps loud on the stairs. He breathed out deeply, closed his eyes, feeling tension drain from him. He was so tired…

"Doyle? Ray?"

Bodie sounded fine, sounded cheerful even – obviously nothing had gone wrong, and there was no reason, he reminded himself, why anything _should_ have gone wrong. 

"In here!" he shouted back, as the bedroom door opened, capping _Givenchy for Gentlemen_ with a final twist. Everything was fine.

The door burst open, so that the steam whipped around him in sudden winds and whirls, and then cold hands were at his waist, cold lips on his cheek.

"Christ!" He pulled away. "You're like an icicle, what have you been doing?"

"Had to park way down the street – it's freezing out there! Bloody traffic on the M6 again too." He reached in and turned on the shower, started stripping his clothes away, throwing them in the general direction of the door.

"Didn't you take the toll?"

"Yeah – truck jack-knifed down by Corby, thought I'd be there all night…"

"What time d'you leave?" He wandered through to the bedroom, picking up Bodie's clothes as he went and dropping them in the laundry basket, pulled on his own shirt.

"About half-two." The shower turned off again, Bodie's voice louder without the rushing water.

"Half _two_?"

"Yeah, I know – cutting it a bit fine. You're not going to believe…"

"You weren't at Chester House."

"Yeah," Bodie repeated, appearing in the doorway, naked and scrubbing at his hair with a towel, "I know that, don't I?" He grinned. "Thought I'd check in on Joe while I was up there – only there we are in the Lass O'Gowrie and who should come in but Bernie Burren…"

Bernie Burren, who Bodie'd not only caught and testified against, but whose leg he'd broken when he heaved him off the scaffolding before having him sent down for five years. Doyle pursed his lips, rummaged in the dresser drawer for cufflinks. Too close, it'd been too close…

"So he's sitting right beside the door – I can't see him cos I've got my back to him, but Joe's watching him and the bugger doesn't move, not through four pints, not even to go for a piss. He doesn't even have to take more than three steps to the bar, and he's between me and the back door _and_ the bog."

"So how did you get out?" He concentrated on fitting the cufflinks, on tucking his shirt in and choosing a tie. Bloody ties.

"I didn't, did I? I thought he was set in for the day, was starting to think I was genuinely going to miss Petra's little shindig, and then he finally drained his glass and toddled off. We gave it another ten minutes, then I left. Here, that's _my_ tie."

Doyle looked down, shrugged, and put it back in the wardrobe. "So you nearly got caught…"

"I didn't _nearly get caught_!" Bodie said indignantly, "I'm here, aren't I?"

"And what if Burren _had_ seen you? What if he'd let the whole place know that Joe was sharing his table with a copper?" He thought he was managing pretty well to stay calm, to speak quietly.

"But he didn't…"

"Fucking hell, Bodie!" He gave up on the tie, turned around to face him. "What the hell were you doing? Joe's been in for nearly eighteen months, if his cover's blown now it's all for nothing!"

Bodie paused in the act of buttoning his own shirt, narrowed his eyes. 

"You told _no one_ where you were going…"

"I told Salma."

"Yeah – and that's the only reason I had any idea you might have been dropped in a canal rather than crushed in some pile up on the motorway!"

"Ah… Sorry." He looked slightly sheepish, tucked in his shirt, and reached around Doyle for his tie. "I think I lost my phone last night. Couldn't find it anywhere this morning…"

"Last night?"

"Had a few jars with the lads in town… Anyway, Salma wasn't supposed to tell you I was meeting Joe." Bodie straightened his tie, pulled on his jacket and did up those buttons too.

"What Salma told me isn't the problem here!"

"Oh no?" Bodie stilled, turned to face him. "And since when did _your_ orders countermand _my_ orders?"

 _What?_ "I didn’t _give_ any orders! Sal had the brains to know that I was worried without _needing_ to be told!" 

"Oh you were worried, were you?" Bodie took a step closer, hands on his hips, and even angry Doyle felt his breath catch in his throat. There was something about the way Bodie's fists pushed his jacket up, pulled it tight across his chest…

He half smiled, moved a little closer himself. "I was worried," he confirmed quietly, wanting Bodie to know that. "After the last time." 

He looked down at Bodie's hands again – his fists – reached out his own hand to pull them closer, to pull them together, because in the end they were both home safely and…

Bodie knocked his hand away. "I think you'll find that I've been working in places far worse than a fucking _pub_ in Manchester since I was _fifteen_ ," he said, his voice low and hard. "And if you're wanting to compare close calls and bad risk assessments it won't be _me_ that comes out worst!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said! Aren't we going to be late?"

 _Fuck._ All those bloody people waiting for them, Horse's Mouth expecting them to _perform_. 

"If you think..."

His phone rang.

He swung away from Bodie to take the call, staring at the darkness outside the window, feeling his face set to snarl, not sure whether he was glad or furious at the interruption. 

Sophie.

" _Sir, I've left you further papers by drop twenty five, but..._ " There was a pause, and Doyle pictured her looking casually around, the very bones in her body tense with it. _"...I think I may have been made - either that or there's something big about to happen and they're just generally jumpy._

"Where are you now, ten-twelve?"

Bodie paused in the act of checking his wallet, looked up and kept looking, watching his face as he spoke.

 _In the loos at the Blue Anchor, down by Hammersmith Bridge. Out with Oliver._

"Is that still alright?"

_"He's a nice bloke, a really really nice bloke."_

"Good... Look, if you're seriously worried then I want you out of there."

_"I'll see how it goes. It's more a feeling than anything else."_

"And you know how we feel about _feelings_." Trust them. Trust them every time.

_"Yes, sir. I'll be careful. I've left my keys there, so I'll go back in and get them tomorrow, have a scout around while it's quiet..."_

"Nothing unnecessary, ten-twelve."

_"I promise. I'd better get back - Olly'll think I've fallen in... If you don't hear from me, I'm most likely lying low for a bit."_

"Alright. Take care." He slid the phone closed, met Bodie's eyes. "She's worried. Couldn't say what about, though."

"Nerves?"

"On anyone else it could be, but she's usually pretty cool." 

"She's not fallen for the bloke, has she?"

Doyle shook his head. "Who knows? Could be." Were they overestimating her? For all she was good, she was still a kid... No, not a kid, no more than he and Bodie'd been at her age - and they'd _not_ been kids, either one of them. "She's left us papers at the Studio, down by the river - pick 'em up on the way?" It wasn't on the way, the opposite in fact, but he'd give anything for a detour, a delay, and it wasn't _that_ off.

"Stop in for a quick one?" Bodie suggested, reading his mind. "Dutch courage?"

Truce.

"Dunno about you, but I'm going to need it," he said, taking the olive branch. "You ready?"

Bodie nodded, headed off downstairs, and Doyle grabbed his jacket from the bed, his wallet and keys from the dressing table, and followed.

The air was sharp outside, as it hadn't been all month despite the wind, and he wondered if the snow they'd had up north was finally sweeping down to them, ready to coat their city in its lie of purity, of a softer, gently-sloped world. The few times he'd been in the country when it snowed - or out of _this_ country altogether - he'd believed in it, a wintry roses-and-lavender where everything was clean and fresh and kind. 

"We should have been on that flight," Bodie said gloomily beside him, as he navigated streets lit orange, shadowed grey and brown and dark. "Half an hour ago."

They should have been doing any number of things, if Horse's bloody Mouth hadn't got in the way.

"Fucking Merrick," he said, because that's who was behind all this. It was _Merrick_ who'd had their weekend cancelled, it was _Merrick_ whose activities were threatening the lives of their agents.

"We could send five-seven to visit over this weekend, if you want to double-check?" 

"Five-seven's tall, dark and six foot two, or hadn't you noticed?"

"So?" Bodie glanced away from the road at him, puzzled. 

"What's Darrow going to think if some bloke turns up on the doorstep asking for Sophie? Mel's on duty this weekend, she'd do." He added it to his list for tomorrow, realised that he'd made plans to be in work on a Saturday without thinking about it.

"She won't ask questions, either." 

Mel was a decent enough agent, but stolid, inclined to follow orders without worrying about what they meant. If they wanted an agent who wouldn't be interested in the overall case, then she was perfect. Ex-army, great shot, not generally for use undercover. 

For use?

They flashed along the roads with the other traffic, the bright brave light of pubs and off licences like a shout in the darkness. A thousand thousand people going out tonight, just as they were, to parties and clubs and mates' houses, breaking the cycle of a dull week at work, something Doyle didn't think he'd had since he'd been in school. He closed his eyes to it all, feeling tired, feeling old.

The Studio was busy, packed with bright young things starting their evenings with high-pitched excitement and short, shining clothes. They didn't stay long, squeezing in beside the flower-filled fireplace at the back of the room, retrieving a tiny memory card from its place tucked behind a loose tile, downing their drinks and sliding back through the crowd to the door and into the car. Had they caught her with her camera, he wondered, that she'd been worried? Or was it all stepping up, whatever it was, maybe sometime this weekend? There'd been no word of movement at any of Merrick's other companies, their agents tucked safely away, getting on with their jobs - real and pretended.

"Ray?" Bodie, looking at him, talking to him. "We're here."

He looked up, and Christ, they _were_. A valet was waiting beside the curb for them to get out, to take Bodie's keys, and Bodie had paused with his hand ready to open the door.

"You really didn't want a party, did you?" he said. "I'm sorry..."

"Not your fault," Doyle rubbed hands across his face. "Didn't get much sleep last night, thassall."

"Ignore Hollywood, drink yourself stupid, have a good time," Bodie suggested.

Yeah. Yeah, he could do that...

He managed a half smile and a nod, wishing they'd had more time at home, pax rather than truce, and hauled himself out of the car. 

Petra had somehow got them in at DeNorrio's, and the irony of his unwanted celebration taking place in one of Merrick's vast chain of holdings was probably something else making him more reluctant than he should be. He took a breath of ice-sharp air, followed Bodie up the stairs. It'd be good to see his old mates again, and maybe he could relax enough that he'd know what to say when they got home, how to get them back on track. What the fuck was happening, anyway...

"Mr Doyle!" It was, of course, Petra, crew hard on her heels, Kerri's camera already relentlessly focussed on him. He flashed a smile at it - he was at work, he was a professional, he would do this. A cheer went up as they wandered into the function room, which was all spinning seventies disco balls and _bling_ just as Petra had promised, a few of the old-timers tapping their watches ostentatiously so that he waved a hand at them in laughing dismissal. He recognised face after face that he knew he'd not seen for years, took the champagne glass that Salma handed him and hooked another one from a passing waiter, settled in to try and enjoy himself.

He lost sight of Bodie early on, maybe not a bad thing, maybe they'd be more inclined to make things up if they had this break, fell into a whirl of greetings and smiles, hugs and the occasional exuberant kiss, and the evening slid from story to reminiscence to story. Was this how it felt, he wondered, your life flashing before your eyes? 

Nine, ten o'clock came and went before he found himself with a moment to himself again, and he scanned the sea of faces and glittering glasses of champagne for his partner, spotted him with Susie Fisher over by the looping projector of seventies tv clips and advertisements, and made his way over. He'd had enough to drink, a good enough time, that he was feeling mellow and more optimistic at last, and in a few hours he'd be able to go home with Bodie and just sleep...

He'd almost made it, had caught Bodie's eye and smiled, dazzlingly, winningly he hoped, when he was intercepted yet again.

"Ray! Someone that you absolutely _must_ meet, an old friend, someone you've not seen for years..." 

"What, another one?" But he let Petra grab his arm and pull him away, seeing Bodie wince slightly, surely in sympathy. He took another sip - fuck it, a _mouthful_ \- of his champagne as he was dragged off, faces blurring around him in a rush of memories and forgetments. He still wasn't sure who Simon Westering was, half-wondered if they'd made him up, although Benny seemed to know him well enough. He felt like some second rate celebrity, everyone waiting for him to smile with delight to see them again. Bad enough when reality tv was on tv, but this was starting to feel like being in a car crash in slow motion - and he'd been in enough of those for real. Surely there wasn't anyone else he could be expected to remember?

He glanced back over his shoulder and so he saw Bodie's shoulders stiffen before he was re-introduced to his next memory, saw his face perfectly composed, absolutely rigid, just before Petra reached out to distract a woman talking to Sally. She was dressed in black and bronze, red hair falling smoothly over her shoulders, and she turned to him, a smile lighting up her face.

"You remember Ann Holly, don't you?" Petra said cheerfully, as Kerri's camera whirred away beside them, green light glowing bright as a laser sight.

o0o

_Of course work takes its toll on the best of relationships, perhaps none more so than those of the men who run our country. We've all seen marriage after marriage fall to the rocks, and although William Bodie and Raymond Doyle have never had their partnership officially registered, they too feel the buffets and thrusts of days when everything seems to go wrong. Their committment, no doubt, remains as strong as it ever was, but it's a strong man who can resist temptation, and these men, while strong, are also only human. Standing alone, more often than not, Bodie stares across the panoramic sweep of London, wondering, perhaps, whether they will be able to survive this latest blow to their partnership._

o0o

**Chapter Fourteen**

For the third time in as many days, Bodie woke to an empty bed and a headache. He lay for a moment, room feeling close and stuffy, wondering why he felt so much more like shit than he had the other days.

Fucking Doyle.

He dragged himself to sitting, then to standing, practically tripped over a pile of clothes lying tangled on the floor between him and the bathroom, and kicked them into the corner of the room. Doyle could clean up his own sodding mess, and if he'd been sick he could clean that up too.

He hadn't, or at least the bathroom was clear and smelled no worse than the rest of the place, and Bodie took a piss, and then a shower and shave, eyes half-closed but in a kind of peace. There was no Doyle downstairs either, not in kitchen or office or lounge - he'd be in work already, no doubt, diligent Doyle hard at it when the rest of the world was taking the weekend off to spend doing more important things, with more important people.

He made tea, took aspirin, scowled out the kitchen window, across the side road and the rooftops.

Might as well go in himself, get rid of some of that fucking paperwork.

Doyle's car was still there, but that didn't mean anything - he took the tube half the time anyway these days, rabbitting on about setting a good example, and carbon footstamps, or whatever they were. He hadn't thought to look for his trainers, but... Nah, he'd be there in the office, worse than bloody Cowley he was, sometimes...

Well, sometimes... Usually they had the weekend off, had set themselves that goal years ago, and mostly managed to stick to it. Saturday mornings should be Doyle under him, bent double and moaning, or behind him, his hands hot on Bodie's skin, not...

He spotted Petra bloody Campanelli at reception, as he entered HQ - didn't that lot ever take a day off from making other lives miserable? - and roared without hesitation across the wide space.

"You! I want a word with _you_!" Bodie saw Petra jump, actually saw her face lose its colour, turn pale, when she realised she was his target, and it made him grimly pleased. Heads turned all around them, a scattering of agents going off or coming on shift, a handful of secretaries or techs or scientists juggling coffees and umbrellas, and Petra flushed deep red. _Good_. He was going to make her life miserable if it was the last thing he did.

"I've just got to meet…"

"My office _now_." He managed to lower his voice, but it was no less angry for all that. He gestured towards the lift that had just arrived, and she stepped obediently inside. Other people who'd been waiting seemed to realise that they needed to find this paper first, or talk to that person over by the stairs, and left them alone.

Bodie said nothing as they rose higher, but he stared at her, didn't look away from her face.

The bell _pinged_ , the door slid open, and he again gestured very politely for her to exit in front of him. 

"Sir, if you could…"

"Not now, Simon."

"There's a…"

"Not _now_ , Simon." 

Petra had pulled herself up straighter as she walked into his office, was steeling herself perhaps to give back as good as she got. It wasn't going to happen.

"Ann Holly."

She tried smiling smugly. "One of Doyle's old friends – we were so pleased we were able to find her…"

" _Mr_ Doyle."

"Of course," she agreed, though her smile faltered, "One of _Mr_ Doyle's friends."

"Exactly what were you hoping to achieve, by interfering in our private lives?"

"We didn't! _Miss_ Holly knew Mr Doyle through CI5, it was in your f…" She paused suddenly, her eyes wide.

"In our..?"

"Um…"

If it had been twenty years ago – even ten – he might have taken hold of her shoulders and shaken her until there were tears in her eyes. If she had been a suspect, someone whose information they _needed_ to save lives, he might still have done it. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets so that she couldn't see his clenched fists, took a slow, deep breath, and kept his eyes on her face. "You found this out by looking in our..?" He knew the answer, of course he knew the answer.

"It was in your files!" she said defiantly, "Files that we were given by the Minister at our initial prep briefing, with the understanding that the information con… contained therein could be used in whatever way we thought would benefit the documentary!"

"When you leave this room you will go and get those papers – or in whatever format they were given to you," – the bloody things were probably on memory sticks and being left on coffee tables all around H-fucking-Q. Christ, they were probably on the _internet_ by now – "and you will bring them back here to me."

"You don't have the…"

"Oh no?" He softened his voice, stepped up close to her, and was mildly impressed when she didn't back away. He lifted a finger, stroked it down her cheek. To hell with the consequences. "You will find, _Miss Campanelli_ , that CI5 has a great many rights in this country, and when it's in the interests of protecting the innocent public, we can do almost anything we like." He held her gaze, stroked slowly down her other cheek. "You will find that while you may have government backing for the _idea_ of your little programme, you are not necessarily the only production company that is able to carry out the work." He paused. "Do you understand me?"

She seemed frozen for a moment, then at last she moved away from him, though she too held his gaze. She took a single step backwards, crossed her arms over her chest, and bit her lip. "Look, I'm really sorry about what's been going on with Kerri, but…"

He raised an eyebrow.

"…but you can't take it out on me, and you can't take it out on the rest of the company, that's not _fair_."

" _What?_

"The thing Kerri's got going on with Mr Doyle – that's why you're so upset, isn't it? I mean, I just assumed that you had an open relationship, like my mates Dez and Samuel do, but even if you don't it's…"

He felt the stillness grow inside him, from the inside out, a great pool of calm, deep and unmoving. "What the hell are you talking about now?"

"You don't… Well… Well, it's probably mostly on Kerri's side, I'm sure it is, I'm sure it's just a bit of fun for _him_ , nothing like what the two of you have…" 

"If you think that little game is going to work with me, you're badly mistaken," he said coldly. "I'm going to tell you just once more – if you ever try and involve yourself in our private lives again – past or present or _future_ , I will make sure that you are unemployable within this country - not even at Burger King."

Petra nodded, tiny, jerking movements, but she took another step backwards. "We're just trying to do our job, under _very_ difficult circumstances…"

"Get me those papers. Now."

"Yes Mr Bodie." She turned away properly, moved quickly towards the door, and then turned back. "Mr Bodie – I'm sorry if we…"

He didn't look at her, sliding his coat from his shoulders, and throwing it over a chair, and she trailed off, didn't try again, left the room.

Bodie turned to the window and stared blindly out, gaze slipping over the old buildings that tried to pull it up to the sky, away from the criss-cross of streets zooming away into his peripheral vision, pausing and sinking a little into the green slash of parkland again. There were trees and grass and... and villains lurking and politicians walking, and no doubt one day Petra Campanelli and her sordid little team sprawled across park benches, plotting...

He'd barely seen Doyle at all last night, once they'd got into the do, and really he shouldn't have expected anything else, not with a set up like that. And Doyle might well have gone off with Ann and Kerri the fucking Camera for over an hour, but that meant nothing and he _knew_ it meant nothing, especially as Doyle had that heavy-eyed, overly careful look about him, when he did finally turn up again, that meant even he was feeling the drink. Probably hadn't had a chance to eat much, either, what with the Drug Squad boys being there, what felt like half the Met and even a scattering of blokes from his phase of going to art classes, so many years ago now. He'd huddled right up with some of _them_ too, and Bodie'd tried not to watch, because they all seemed to be touching types as well... At least Horse's Mouth hadn't tried to drag in any of Doyle's family - or maybe they had, and predictably failed.

He turned his computer on, flicked through his email and deleted half of them, and when Petra appeared with a pile of folders - thank god they'd been paper files after all - he practically snatched them from her hands.

"This is everything?"

She nodded.

"No copies?"

"The Minister said not to..."

"Are there any copies?"

"No."

"Get out of my sight," he said tightly, and didn't even watch her go. No doubt they'd have to put up with them a while longer, and no doubt he'd have to make it up to her somehow, to avoid a real hack job, but...

Fuck, it was no good. He flicked through the folders quickly, locked them in a desk drawer, and slammed his way out of the room. The paperwork would have to wait, he'd go down to the Centre and shoot some rounds, swim _three_ hundred sodding lengths, anything but stay here in the claustrophobic, centrally heated closet that was his office.

o0o

Doyle was asleep on the couch when he got home, looking as sprawled and relaxed as if he'd spent the day doing nothing more taxing than flicking at the remote control for the telly, nothing more than anyone would expect to do at the weekend. But Bodie's phone had remained silent - at least from Doyle's number - he'd not turned up looking for him at the Centre, and no one he spoke to had seen him.

He thought about giving the couch a kick - it was what Doyle would have done, his temper still physical more often than not - couldn't bring himself to face the shouting match he was desperate to begin, to get over and done, and so he took himself off to the kitchen, turning the oven on, then slamming from cupboard to cupboard to fridge in search of something that could be turned into a decent meal. 

Potatoes with more eye than potato, a handful of white-furred tomatoes and a stalk of desultory celery, and a solitary curl of _rigatoni_ in the pasta tin.

Right. There was pizza buried in the freezer, a giant _Meat Feast_ that would no doubt be full of salt and sugar and e-numbers, and he pulled it out with perverse satisfaction. Doyle would hate it. Plastic in the bin, polystyrene in the bin, _cardboard_ in the bin - fuck recycling too. If Doyle wanted it sorted, _he_ could sort it. He slammed the oven door closed, and set the timer.

There was no wine in the rack, but there was a single bottle of fancy German beer in the side of the fridge door, and he liberated that, didn't bother with a glass, tipped his head back and took a long draught.

"Enjoying that?"

Finally. Doyle stood at the door, looking rumpled, and rubbing at his eyes like some bloody kid.

"Couldn't manage the shopping, then?"

"Fuck, is it my turn? Sorry, fell asleep."

"Alright for some."

"Eh?" Doyle frowned at him, finally cottoning on that something was wrong. "I just lay down for a minute..."

"And whose fault is that? What time did you get home last night anyway?"

"Dunno - gone three. Why'd you slip off like that? Had to get a cab on me own..."

"Where to?"

"Where... look, I don't know what I'm supposed to have done..."

"What, or who?"

Doyle's mouth closed, his jaw tightened, and he tilted his head up.

"Ann Holly, or your favourite little camera girl?"

" _What?_ "

"Oh nice Doyle, still playing the outraged but innocent husband?"

"I _am_ the innocent and increasingly outraged... _party_ here, yeah. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It's not as if it would be the first time though, is it?" And fuck, because he hadn't meant to bring that up, they'd settled that years ago, and it had never been ....

"Is this because of Ann?"

Bodie didn't grace him with a reply. It wasn't because of Ann, not really, and it wasn't because of Kerri, or Campbell fucking Smith, or... "Can't remember back to Friday, eh?"

Doyle paused, he could see him tracking backwards, trying to work it all out. "The Manchester thing? I was _worried_ about you!"

"And you never did quite tell me why, did you?"

"Oh I think I did." Doyle's eyes were glinting dangerously now, his hands in fists by his side. "You broke all the rules going out there without telling anyone you intended to interfere in an ongoing investigation..."

"I _run_ that investigation!"

"...you apparently told my secretary that she should keep quiet about what you were doing..."

"Make up your mind, _four five_ , did I tell anyone where I was going, or didn't I?"

"...and although you could perfectly well have called in so that we knew you were on your way back, you didn't have the common courtesy to manage _that_ , did you _three-seven_?"

"I lost my phone!"

"Yeah, well that just about sums it up, doesn't it!"

"You supercilious little toe-rag! And since when was Salma _your_ secretary?"

"What," Doyle ground out, "Is your problem, _Bodie_?"

His problem was that he wanted their life back. "Oh, suddenly all this is my problem? Your screwing around is _my_ problem!"

Doyle stared at him for what felt like long minutes. "Do you _really_ think that I spent last night - what, fucking Ann or Kerri or Salma or all three?"

"Well, which was it?"

"I am _not_ having this conversation with you."

Oh he was - they'd have the conversation, they'd have the fight if they had to, but Doyle was going to...

Doyle was turning around, striding down the corridor, and slamming the front door, and all to the tune of his fucking _ringtone_ as his phone went off yet again.

Bodie thought about chasing after him, about swinging him around in the street, and drumming understanding into him with his _fists_ if necessary, but that wasn't his style, that was all Doyle too. He paused at the kitchen door, one hand leaning on the counter, felt paper crumpling as he tightened his grip on something, and looked down. He stared vaguely for a moment at the words between his fingers, their e-ticket to Morocco, a meaningless jumble of numbers and random letters that couldn't be read, couldn't be made to say anything at all. It wasn't a real ticket, it wouldn't mean anything if he tore it into tiny pieces, if he screwed it up and threw it away. Texts and emails, the whole fucking lot of it - all still lurking out there in the ether, whether he lost his phone or not.

The front door slammed, and he looked up. Would Doyle apologise, or would he?

But Doyle was staring at his phone, gripped and open in one hand.

Bodie didn't speak, waited for him.

"That was Sophie," Doyle said at last, "At least I think it was."

Bodie looked a question at him.

"It's her number, but there wasn't anyone at the other end."

"Left it on in her bag."

Doyle shook his head. "No rustling, none of those noises. There was someone there alright, I could hear them breathing. And then someone hung up."

Fuck.

o0o

_There's no rest for CI5 at the weekend, even after a wild event like Ray Doyle's fifty-fifth birthday celebrations. The building hums with operatives at every moment of every day of the week, because the security of the country doesn't stop for a game of tennis, or a visit to the cinema with its loved ones. If you wander from room to room you find code-breakers, forensic scientists, language specialists, IT experts, and field operatives on stand-by, waiting, guns at the ready, to be told that they are needed, that their presence is imperative. This is a twenty-four seven job, even for the men at the top._

o0o

**Chapter Fifteen**

He wanted to believe that Bodie was right, that Sophie's phone had somehow switched itself on in her bag, had been speaking only to her hairbrush, or her make up, or whatever women kept in there these days. Not ten-twelve's gun though, CI5-issue, and ammunition to see her through, not while she was undercover. 

Maybe she'd dialled, ready to speak, as she had the other day and then hung up without being able to do so? But then why hadn't she cancelled straight away, and why hadn't he heard voices? He worried at his lip with his thumb, frowned the whole way to HQ, in the passenger seat of Bodie's Merc. Bodie hadn't said anything apart from a terse _"I'll turn off the cooker"_ before pulling Doyle's coat from the stand where he'd left it when he'd slammed so dramatically out, and handing it carefully to him, putting his own on and fishing for his keys. They'd left in silence, and they were still in silence, and he still didn't really know why.

Bodie didn't believe he'd slept with Ann again, or either of the other two - did he? He hadn't been worrying at things like this since - well, since the Smith thing? That'd been... Christ, over seven years ago, before... before _anything_ , or so he'd thought.

Bodie'd thought differently.

They swung down and into the CI5 garage, brightly lit in the early evening, but barely scattered with vehicles at this time on a Saturday. There was that world, going on without them again, football matches and family dinners, and fights over the telly - theirs was a darker place, glowering urgently at them from shadows and threats, for all it called to them like a siren song. 

The IT section buzzed with its usual measured rush, data being gathered, collated, sent pulsing through a million wires and out into the universe. Karen presided from her glass-fronted office, freshly arrived to take up the night shift, ready for anything they could throw at her.

"We need a fix on this number," Doyle said without preamble, scribbling it onto a post-it, holding it out on one finger.

Karen nodded, took the paper, glasses glinting bluely at them from the hemisphere of computer screens at her desk. "Personally, or shall I delegate?"

"Either way, but _now_."

Bodie glanced a warning at him, and he took a breath, tried to moderate his worry. But he was the one who'd sent Sophie in there, he couldn't even call it a joint decision with Bodie, he'd all but presented him with a _fait accompli_... "Whatever's quickest," he said, "And we could do with the records for the past day or so."

She tapped rapidly at her computer, eyes on the screen, then shook her head. "That number's off the network, I'm afraid, as of..." More tapping. "...twenty two minutes ago."

"Can't be, she... What does that mean?"

"Just that - it's off, it's no longer receiving or sending calls."

"Not even 999?"

"Totally off the network," she said, with apparently endless patience. "Which with one of our phones - which this is, isn't it - means it's most likely damaged beyond repair... And in this case I can tell you exactly when. Look," she pointed to a row of numbers, "This is where it last checked in with our catcher - but you see the cut-off is different to these other check-ins? It was interrupted during the process, and it's not been online since."

"So she's either dropped it," Bodie said, "Or turned it off?"

Karen shook her head. "There's no remote access, which we'd have whether it was turned on or off, so..."

Which left the question - had she dropped it, or had someone else?

"Can you tell us where it was when it happened?"

"I just need to triangulate... Okay this is the address." 

BioR.

"Email me the call history?"

She nodded, hit another few keys, and before they'd even left the room said "Done."

"D'you ever read Big Brother?" Doyle asked morosely, momentarily distracted as they made their way to the lift.

"What, that cracking book by Davina McCall? Of course..."

"Berk."

"She could just have dropped it, you know, it's easily done."

"And you'd know."

Bodie looked at him. "If we go in now, and there's nothing wrong, then Merrick knows we're still on him." The lift arrived with a delicate _ping_ , and they stepped in. 

Doyle stared at Bodie's profile in the mirrored back wall. "And if we don't go in, then a girl dies."

Bodie glanced at him, put this hands on his hips, and bowed his head. "Yeah, I know..."

Doyle closed his eyes, leaned back against the flimsy wall himself. He was losing his nerve - like Macklin, like Murphy, like Pembroke, he was losing his nerve. Too fucking old.

No.

"It's Saturday night, it's early - she could be anywhere. Let's send in five-seven, see if he stirs anything up."

The lift came to a stop at their level, Bodie held the button. "Not Mel?"

"Definitely not Mel." They shared a wry glance. 

 

"Right - I'll find John, send him to the house, Darrow'll know where Soph is, sounds like she's got him wrapped around her finger."

He nodded, stepped out. "Alright. How's the lab getting on?"

Bodie shrugged. "Haven't heard. Could be nothing, couldn't it?"

"It's Merrick - could be _any_ thing." What had Bodie said the other day - female Viagara? Chocolate cornflakes? And it might all be a wild goose chase anyway. Except that he had a feeling...

The corridors were all but deserted now, Salma's desk empty, and he left Bodie to track five-seven down in the standby room, while he sat in the near-quiet and scanned Sophie's last phone calls. Nothing after the last call that had been made to him, and before that a series of calls and texts with Darrow, a couple to numbers recorded as belonging to her new housemates, and then the odd cinema, take-away and directory enquiry number. Nothing that looked wrong.

He pushed his chair back impatiently, strode to the window and stared out at the squares and blobs of light that were the city at night. It should have been a foreign skyline, or Bodie's threatened - _promised_ \- bed railings and scarves...

 _That_ wasn't helping either. He turned away, took long steps across the carpet, past his desk, back to the corridor. He'd see what Kuo and his boffins had come up with, whether they were fussing about nothing, or had real cause for concern, and _then_ he'd be concerned. Sophie was good, she'd been on dozens of undercover ops and come home safely, barely more than bruised. She was probably out buying a nice new, ordinary phone right now, trying to work out how she'd be able to afford the one she wanted on a tea lady's salary.

Bodie, of course, was disappearing into Kuo's office as Doyle reached the lab floor. _Fools seldom differ..._ \- and they were fools, they'd slipped, they'd let it all get to them. 

He joined them in the over-warm room, leaning quietly against a filing cabinet, letting Bodie get the polite preliminaries over with. Kuo's wife was fine, his new baby sleeping well...

"What have you got for us, Peter?" he asked when it seemed to have finally wound down, bare seconds, he knew, later.

Kuo picked up a pile of papers, pictures of scribbled numbers and letters that looked like nothing on earth to Doyle. "We're ninety-five percent sure we can see what they've been doing, and as I said to Bodie the other day - it looks as if it's something big, bigger maybe than you can imagine."

"I don't want to imagine it, do I, I want you to tell us what it is!"

There was that look again, that warning look from Bodie. 

"Well the trouble is that if it turns out we've made a mistake..."

"Then don't make a mistake!"

"Two or three more hours - Liu's running a check that will almost certainly either confirm or deny our suspicions. Give us two or three more hours, and I'll be happier talking about it."

"We don't have..."

"Okay - that's fine," Bodie cut him off. "Give us a call when you think you've got it? We'll be upstairs."

Kuo nodded. "As soon as I can - that's a promise."

Bodie closed a hand around Doyle's wrist as he passed, so that he had no option but to let himself be ushered out if he wanted to keep any dignity at all. 

"He shouldn't even be here," Bodie said in a low voice, as they walked side by side to the lift. "It's Saturday night, he should be at home with his wife and kid, not working until nine o'clock at night."

"He didn't have to stay - no one coerced him into it. Liu either. If they want to be here out of hours..." 

"...then we take advantage of it."

Yeah. And it should have been him arguing against it. "Did John get off alright?" he asked, because it might be wrong, they should send Kuo and Liu both off home, special project or not, but he needed to know _now_ what was going on at BioR.

"He's going to call round with a bottle of wine - long lost friend and all that. He'll check in."

Nothing to do but wait.

"Just be patient," Bodie instructed as the lift reached their floor and the doors slid open. 

Doyle rolled his eyes. "You're telling _me_ to be patient..."

"Oh for fuck's sake Doyle, _don't_ start..."

He took a breath, not _wanting_ to start, wanting... 

"Mr Doyle?"

Not that.

"Oh for _fuck's_ sake," Bodie thumped the wall beside them, and Kerri, standing in Doyle's office doorway, flinched a little. "Doesn't anyone go home for the weekend any more?"

"I just wanted to talk to..."

"Yes, I'm sure you do!"

"Bodie!" Bad enough that she'd seen Bodie lose his temper at all, but it was just stupid to direct it at the Horse's Mouth lot.

"This _project_ a bit further down the to-do list suddenly, is it?"

Fucking hell - if that was the way he wanted to play it...

"You said yourself we need to be patient," he said silkily to Bodie, then turned to Kerri's pale face. "I could do with a breath of fresh air anyway, love, why don't we go and find a decent coffee somewhere?"

Kerri nodded, though she had one eye for Bodie's face, which was impassive, hard and impassive.

"Good..." He took her arm in his, just to annoy Bodie a bit more, and reversed his footsteps back to the lift, without looking back.

He chatted inanely about this and that as they walked, still arm in arm, to the nearest open cafe, and he bought her a decaf latte, got them to put an extra shot in his, and then chose a table near the window, where he could look out at the Saturday revellers wandering past, at the skeletal trees against the backdrop of still-festive lights, and shaded shops.

"Mr Bodie was cross about something..." Kerri said tentatively, and Doyle wondered how much she'd heard. 

He waved it away. "We all have our bad days," he reminded her. "Shouldn't you be out somewhere on a Saturday night? Living it up a little?"

"I am out." She smiled back at him.

"Kerri - no."

"Oh, no..." she looked flustered, "I didn't mean... Sorry, I always get it wrong, don't I? It was supposed to be a joke..."

 _Fuck_ Doyle screwed up his face, not sure how much more angsting he could take, but she rushed on. 

"Actually that's why I popped in, I wanted to apologise properly for the other night. I was emotional and over-tired and - it shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."

Well, that was something. "Apology accepted," he said, though he hadn't even thought about it since then. "Everyone's entitled to a... _freak out_ now and then..."

She giggled, covered her mouth with her hand. 

"What?"

"Oh, just... You're too... _dashing_ to say things like that!"

"What - _freak out_?"

She nodded, eyes twinkling up at him. Even Horse's Mouth were just kids at the end of the day.

"I'll have you know I was saying _freak out_ before you were a gleam in your mother's eye."

She smiled properly then, and they slid easily to chatting about the past, about discos, and pubs before the smoking ban, and the way the world changed. 

"You'll be teleporting in a few years," he said at last, tipping back his head to drain the last of his coffee. "Or maybe that bloke'll have perfected his rocket pack." He stood up, feeling calmer, and knowing he had to face Bodie sooner rather than later. "Let's get you a taxi for now though, eh?"

It was still early enough that he flagged one down barely yards from the cafe, saw her tucked safely inside and off to enjoy what was left of her evening, then set off himself to walk back to HQ, trying to order his thoughts. He shoved his hands in his pockets, away from the cold air, realised that he'd missed a call when his phone beeped loudly, vibrated against his fingers.

No voice message, but a text.

_howlett dead iane holed up overseeing_

He broke into a run, took the steps to CI5 three at a time, and burst through reception so that he was already halfway through when Dave at the desk was on his feet, gun drawn. He waved him down, thinking vaguely that they'd have to do something about that, and was finally in the comms room.

There was no Jax at this late hour, but Ruth was there coordinating, another old hand, solid and sure of what she was doing, and after all this time Doyle could read her tone and mannerisms like a book. She pointed to station two, and he pulled on a headset and clicked himself in, eschewing the chair to pace up and down the row of seats instead.

Another smooth op had swung into action, and Doyle knew he should be proud of them, proud of everyone who knew their place, their role, their responsibilities and abilities to a hairsbreadth. The prison van transferring Howlett and Iane from their high security digs to a category B - and why that was being done in the first place would no doubt be the subject of a long night in the Commons sooner rather than later - had been spiked on the Eastern Way. Howlett had been shot by one of two hijackers who were now holed up in a vast council building on the business park, and the bright side of that was that it was _too_ big for them to defend, it was small enough for CI5 to set up a perimeter and surround, and there was nowhere else for Iane to go. 

"Do we know who the others are yet?" he asked Ruth, who shook her head.

"They were wearing masks and they've not been seen without them."

"CCTV we can tap into?"

"On channel five."

He kept half an ear on the op as he scanned the earlier footage, on Bodie's certain tones and sharp orders, nodding along where he would have done no differently, only once screwing up his face where he would have acted otherwise - but Bodie'd always had a wariness of the locals, and though he'd toned it down over the years, it would always be there. 

The second time he screwed up his face, was when Bodie included himself in the team sent in to quarter and clear the building.

Ruth heard his hiss of breath as Bodie read off the names - eight of them, quick and quiet and leaving enough agents outside to keep the gaps closed - and she glanced at him. He pursed his lips, shook his head, and in a low voice said "Bloody fool."

"He's still in the top percent for accuracy," Ruth reminded him, "Just like you."

"I'm not fool enough to try and take the place of someone twenty years younger than me!" he snapped back, managed to temper it straight away with an apology. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

They listened to the businesslike tones that took everyone to their places, to the check-in and last minute reports from each agent there. When they went in everyone would have a perfect picture of the positioning, would know exactly who was where, doing what.

"George Cowley used to do it all the time," Ruth observed quietly. "You didn't like it then either, did you?"

"He had a gammy leg and a bad habit of not telling anyone what he was planning," Doyle said defensively. "You never knew where you were when he was out there with you."

Ruth raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, alright - he was good. But he was older than we are now!"

"Bodie's younger, and his leg's good." She paused, and they listened again as Bodie himself gave cool, clear instructions over the comms. "He's not much like Cowley, is he?"

He threw her a sardonic glance, and she smiled at him, unrepentantly.

"Still recovering from the other night?"

"From the week, and the week before that," he admitted, as he wouldn't have to many others. "Let's just say I'll be glad when it's... oh, March."

"Chin up - they'll be gone soon."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"You're not the only one they're bothering," she started, stopped as Bodie tapped in with a message for the Met, and turned away to relay it on, then to check their recording equipment. 

Doyle turned back to channel five, though the pictures were distant, murky in the dim orange security light. Tiny figures moved here and there on the different screens, he saw Bodie's team sliding, two by two, into position, then nothing as they disappeared into their respective doors and windows.

He should have been there, Bodie's two. 

Then there was a shot, a single, echoing gunshot, and the comms were suddenly a rapid fire of question and answer as agents tried to place what had happened, where it had happened. Bodie's voice was there, cool and collected, so Doyle kept breathing, stepped in to answer questions from the Met's comm room when Ruth patched them over for their reassurance. He heard the rush of agents up to the second floor as if he was there himself, picturing every single move, every coordinated action. Belle and Levitt _there_ , Bodie and Chou _there_...

"Now you bastards I have killed the one!"

The comm room froze around him for a moment. 

"I won't hesitate to do the same to him, and then to whoever is next in my target!"

Who was _him_? Where the hell was Bodie?

"He's your mate Iane - he got you out! Why kill your mates?"

And there was Bodie, right in front of the action.

"Back in jail mates are unimportant! Let me through, and he lives!"

"Can't do that..."

"You _will_ die - I will make sure I take at least one of you with us!"

Shit - back off Bodie, back _off_...

"Yeah, but you'll be dead too, and what's the point of that, eh? Live and try again later, right?"

Bloody Bodie... He didn't know whether to laugh or whether to promise he'd shoot him later himself. He exchanged rolled eyes with Ruth, breathed shallowly, waiting.

Quiet ticked away around them, from Iane, from Bodie, from the comm room itself. It could go this way, it could go that, and...

Another shot rang out, there was a cry.

Doyle started forward, gripping the back of Ruth's chair. Had that been Iane? Iane shouting out, or...

"Who made that shot?" Bodie's roar blasted across the comms, so that Doyle's ears rang, his heart started beating again.

"I did, sir." Levitt's voice, steady as a rock.

"Good woman, I could see his finger tightening on the trigger, he wasn't going to give up without a bloodbath."

"Thank you, sir." Levitt sounded relieved, no matter how steady she'd been a moment ago, no matter how sure of herself and her sixth sense. She'd been right, Bodie had told her she'd been right, and it was all over, safe again, all but the mop up.

Doyle closed his eyes, patted Ruth on the shoulder, and took himself off upstairs, headset still jabbering away in his ear, agent to agent, check-in and instructions, Bodie's voice a constant in the background.

He _would_ kill him when Bodie got back.

o0o

_So how do you get into CI5? How do you qualify to be a member of this elite government force that spends its life saving ours, day in and out? You need to be fit, you need to be accurate, and you need to be smart - but even being top of your league in all these things won't guarantee you a place. It's difficult to say what will - what that certain_ something _is that will let you enter their world of intrigue. It's not a degree, or A-levels, or even GCSEs - you don't need good marks to get into Crim Intell Five, Raymond Doyle and William Bodie are both proof of that. You don't even need to be SAS-level macho - watch Doyle sipping at a latte, or Bodie tapping away at his computer, and you will see that these are not your typical army grunts. There is, however, a certain look to their eyes, a certain glint that speaks of something else, a deeper quality, perhaps a wilder quality. You have to be prepared to do anything_ \- anything _to keep our country safe, you have to believe absolutely that what you are told to do is the right thing, and you have to be able to kill. Even some soldiers have to be driven to the edge of their nerves in order to kill without thought, and Crim Intell Five demands that of all their agents. Motivation must surely be key. Thomas "Mad Tommy" McKay, for instance, saw his whole family killed by..._

o0o

**Chapter Sixteen**

Sunday was lost in a rush of bureaucratic housekeeping, of inspecting this and that doorstep and finding them grubby, the cracks showing, of explaining to the Minister and his various cronies and cohorts exactly how Howlett and Iane had come to be killed on what should have been a routine move from one prison to another - and how it had been CI5 who had saved the day.

He'd not seen Doyle alone until Sunday night, when he'd finally sat in front of his computer to send the very last email of the whole fucking business, and found himself in a harshly-whispered row that had barely avoided becoming physical. If they'd been at home, Bodie thought, one or the other of them would have moved first, would have hit hard and with feeling, and finished the whole thing then and there.

But he didn't really want to hit Doyle, though he absolutely and totally wanted to hit Doyle, and so he commandeered one of their downstairs rooms again, didn't-sleep there and wondered how to get around...whatever it was they needed to get around.

By the time his watch flashed six o'clock in the morning, he was no nearer to knowing anything at all, and he took himself back upstairs, showered and listened for signs of Doyle's own return, and then went and sat solidly at his desk.

There were times, he decided, when only paperwork would do, coupled with instructions to Salma that anyone disturbing him would be shot on sight, if she wanted him to catch up on the budget approvals and personnel assessments that had been sitting on his desk for over a week now. So he took the day for just that, and no one knocked on his door, his computer remained offline, thanks to the careful removal of several cables, and his telephone stayed mute. If his new mobile rang, he didn't know about it, because not only was it set to silent, but it was carefully buried in the pot plant on the filing cabinet, and as far as Bodie was concerned it could _stay_ there.

He buried himself in good old fashioned paper and ink, ticked boxes with satisfaction, read summaries and signed them, and transferred numbers from box to tiny box, saving the sums carefully, double-checking them, and assigning them to this or that department with care, a kind of meditation. Paperwork didn't shout, it didn't nag, and if it really pissed him off he could either tear it to tiny shreds, or he could hit the _delete_ key and send it far, far into the ether. Would he do that to Doyle if he could? Too fucking right - self righteous, _superior_ , jumped up little sod.

Hours ticked away, lunchtime came and went, he was cocooned in blessed peace and he worked on. Eventually he realised with a start that the light had dimmed, and that he'd actually written his name so sharply, gouged so deeply into the paper, that he'd torn the page he was signing, and with a sigh he scrunched it up and binned it, sent another copy to the printer. 

Time for a breather.

With a glance to his office door, he grabbed his coat instead, fiddled briefly with the wiring on the fire door at the opposite end of the room, and stepped outside onto the fire escape. There was still a sharp chill to the air and he paused to pull his coat more tightly around him, inhaled deeply to wake himself up a little, and found himself breathing in cigarette smoke. Somewhere below, someone else had worked their way around the fire alarm system, and was having a sneaky afternoon fag break. He peered over the thick concrete of the stairwell - he'd either give them the fright of their lives or wander down and shake his head in amazement with them over Flintoff and his mates in South Africa. 

"...to get some decent shots of the two of them together."

"Well you should have thought of that before you had 'em clawing each others eyes out, shouldn't you?"

Kerri? And Petra? He backed away from the edge, where he could just see their fair and dark heads leaning casually together, pursed his lips, and then slipped silently down the next set of stairs, crouched down with his back to the wall, and his ears open.

"I thought I had some good stuff, but they're never quite close enough for what I want. Tom got some good footage at the baths, but I think Doyle cottoned on - d'you remember he slapped the cam right down when we were there? I nearly dropped the thing."

"They're not stupid - you don't get to be stupid _and_ important."

"Hello? Have you _seen_ Paris Hilton?" 

"I thought you were going to say George Bush then..."

"Why would I say George Bush? Look, anyway, we need them together again now - we can splice the scenes later to the right order."

"Well... how are you going to do that? Can't you come back to it later? You've got them right where you want them now - get another couple of juicy fights in while you can. They've been together for years, they'll make up sooner or later, won't they?"

"I suppose. Did you have any luck getting hold of that Claire woman?"

"Which one? There were about twelve on the list..."

"The one who got bombed, who had the skin grafts?"

"I managed to get her address, but..."

That was enough. He was on his feet and down the next set of stairs in barely three bounds, fury giving him flight, a dark avenging angel. 

"You go anywhere _near_ either Claire or her family, and I will have you _both_ inside so fast you'll forget your own _names_!"

" _Fuck..._ " They jumped and spun round to face him, Petra's face draining of colour, Kerri's cigarette falling from her fingers and whipped away on the wind.

"It's investigative journalism," Kerri said defensively, "We've got every right to interview people connected with our investigative angle!"

"And I've got every right to advise _them_ of their rights as regards the restriction of photographers taking pictures on and around private property, and of what constitutes harassment – not to mention Section 44 of the Terrorism Act 2000!" 

Petra looked worried, but Kerri frowned. "That's got nothing to do with…"

"You don't think that close personal friends of the security forces have ever been seen as potential targets for terrorists? I can have your camera confiscated _like that_ at any time – and don't think I won't do it!"

"Look, there's no need for any of this," Petra interrupted, looking from one to the other of them, "We're not intending to do anything against…"

"It sounds to me a lot like you've already done it! I've warned you once about invasion of our privacy, and if _she_ ," he prodded at the air in front of Kerri, so that she took a step backwards, "Thinks she can inveigle her way between two people just for better ratings figures, and if _you_ think you can interfere in the lives of…"

"All I did was offer Ray what he clearly wanted," Kerri said vehemently. "It's standard practice in your _security forces_ , why shouldn't we use it to reveal what's going on under the rotten white belly of government? You think you can get away with _anything_ in CI5, but you _can't_. Doyle _likes_ me, and he showed that he did – so _what_? If your relationship isn't strong enough…"

She stopped suddenly, as if she'd run out of words, but her eyes lifted to something – someone – on the stairs behind him. Bodie turned his head.

"I didn't want to interrupt," Doyle said at last, looking them all up and down, shadowed in the dim light, dangerously still and quiet in Bodie's experience. Polite. "Bodie, we're needed."

Bodie glared at the girls, fists clenched now by his sides. "I want you off these premises _now_ \- and don't think that you can get to the Minister faster than I can, because I promise you that will damage your case far more than you can imagine."

"Bodie!"

It had to be something important if Doyle was prepared to leave this behind them, so he followed him back up the fire escape, through the door to his own office, and into the corridor. Doyle didn't say anything, just strode, long-legged, in front of him so that Bodie watched the familiar movement, the way his hips moved _just so_ with it, the way his arms swung, the way his hands practically framed his arse.

He'd missed that view, he thought suddenly, in the same way that he'd realised he missed _touching_ Doyle.

Something as simple as that - was that all that was wrong? His mind wandered, back over the past days, weeks, then years, all their efforts to keep themselves together in the end, on the straight and narrow...

They ended up in Kuo's office, though Kuo was nowhere to be seen and it was Margaret Liu who greeted them, waved them in and nodded excitedly at them.

"You've got something for us, Maggie?" Doyle prompted, when they'd settled themselves, and she took a breath, nodded emphatically.

"Peter's finishing up in the lab now, but we've got enough information to come to a conclusion about the papers you brought us, and since you implied you needed this urgently...?"

Bodie snapped back to the here and now, made an affirmative face at her. _Work_ , and it _was_ urgent. Five-seven had come back with nothing definite to report. Darrow had gone to his parents for the weekend - that checked out - and Sophie'd gone into work on Saturday, but she might have come back and gone anywhere, because they didn't keep tabs on each other, and did he want to leave the wine or just give her a call? And no, they _didn't_ know what had happened to her phone, but maybe she'd gone to meet her _boyfriend's_ parents for Sunday lunch? He'd nodded in resignation, sent John to give Doyle the news, and fought the urge to go round there himself.

"Right..." Liu paused, looked at them dubiously. "Do you want the actual science bit?" she asked, "Or shall I..."

"Just the highlights, love," Doyle said, "What's this about?"

Liu took a deep breath, brushed a strand of hair from her face. "It's almost certainly a cure for the common cold, for flu, poliomyelitus, Coxsackie A, maybe hepatitus A, for... Well, _Picornaviridae_ is the family of viruses - they contain a single stranded, positive sense RNA genome that's between 7.2 and..."

 _The science bit_ \- Bodie made a face, and Liu paused.

"The highlights Liu," Doyle repeated, gesturing with one hand, "Bring it down again. You're saying BioR has found a cure for... what, half the diseases on the planet?"

"Well, not _half_ , there are actually seven groups of viruses, or six if you..." She stopped, took a breath. "A cure for many diseases, yes."

"So... That's good, isn't it? That's... _incredible_!" Doyle smiled suddenly, looking straight at Bodie, so that Bodie felt his face soften, though he had a feeling he knew what was coming next. Liu should be smiling as well, should be not just excited but ecstatic. But he saw the moment realisation swept over Doyle too, saw his brow start to crease, his eyes darken.

Doyle sat up straight in his chair, then sprang to his feet, looked straight at Liu. "They're not going to release it, are they?"

Liu shook her head slowly. "Most of the papers contained coding, the formula, but there were also pages with notes that suggest... that suggest they've considered the financial advantages and disadvantages, and... No, they're not."

"The bastards are going to hold on to something that could save millions of lives, and… Merrick isn't doing anything wrong is he?" Doyle said slowly, wonderingly. How he could be so amazed about it after all his years in CI5, after _knowing_ , from the inside, how the world worked...

"I dunno..." It was selfish and it had to be political and it was unbelievable beyond measure, but... what was the actual crime being committed? Yet again there was nothing to fight, nothing to rage against and grab at - just smoke and wishes. Chains of numbers that would never be seen, that barely existed as ideas in the real world.

Liu looked from one of them to the other. "But this is one of the biggest breakthroughs we've seen in medical genetics, this... This could revolutionise the world! There's got to be some way we can get hold of the rest of the data!"

"I know!" Doyle snapped at her. Bodie frowned at him, but it went unseen. "But it's all down to the big pharmaceuticals making money, and there's no legal way to force them to share it! Look at HIV in bloody Africa! There's no..." He broke off, wheeled away from her, from the table, from the whole lousy mess of it, shoulders slumped. Bodie could feel him, _that_ was tangible. "There's nothing. It's a dirty, rotten, _lousy_ thing, and there's nothing we can do."

"Bollocks. We'll think of something," he interrupted, determined, pushing his chair back, standing up. They had to think of something. He spoke in a low voice to Liu - a warning, a comfort, another warning. " _Keep this safe for now, "_ he said, _"No more than the five of us."_

He knew he didn't have to say the rest of it out loud.

Or we _will_ lock you up.

Then he turned to Doyle.

 

**Chapter Seventeen**

Footsteps, a door closing – Margaret off to find Kuo, perhaps - footsteps again, and then Bodie was beside him, a presence where Doyle couldn't see him, where he refused to look.

"We could get it out there ourselves," Bodie suggested. "Make the internet work _for_ us, for a change. Send it around the world a million times if we wanted."

"D'you think they haven't thought of that?" He knew he sounded angry, bitter, but he knew Merrick, he knew Peter Merrick very well by now. "They'll have something nasty in the works to stop it."

"Like what?"

"I dunno..." He couldn't think, his brain a mush of despair at _people_. "We don't even have the whole thing, never mind proof that it would work – that'd take years an' all." But what they had would have been a head start.

Bodie didn't say anything. He knew.

They were quiet for a moment, letting the world tick away around them. Through the window, into the winter-dark city, they watched tiny lights streaming and flashing their way down one street and up another, they saw traffic lights flashing red-orange-green-orange-red, and office windows blink on and blink off. People were working, people were cooking, they were sick and dying in the hospitals and houses. 

And in their hands, in some safe at BioR, were documents and files and ideas and _knowledge_ that could save them. It was the opposite of terrorism, and yet it wasn't - it was all having the power to let people _live_...

"Bombs are easier," he said, taking a breath and looking at Bodie at last. "D'you remember that atom bomb in the bowling alley? You'd never believe it could happen, now."

"Different world," Bodie agreed. "Doesn't feel like ours, sometimes, does it?"

"D'you reckon that's what Cowley thought, when he was our age?"

"I think that's what Cowley thought when he was _half_ our age - maybe that's why he fought so long."

But it was a different war they were fighting now, perhaps even colder, perhaps even crueller in its way.

"Look, about Horse's Mouth…" Bodie began, but Doyle shook his head, waved a hand at him. He couldn't, not right now. 

"I'll see you tonight at home," he said, and strode out into the corridor, walking quickly, almost blindly. He didn't want to be stopped, he didn't want to see people, he… what did he want?

He wanted to get on with work, to remind himself that they did some good in the world, that it was all worth the fight. Just a couple of hours of solid, constructive _getting things done_ , and then he'd go and sort out the mess and the muck.

His office was brightly lit when he got there, so that the outside world was blacked to nothing in comparison. Salma had left a pile of correspondence on his desk, and he set to with that, emptying his mind of everything but protocol and procedure and efficiency and budget. When she finally popped in to say goodnight, it was six o'clock, and he managed a smile for her, stretched back in his chair. 

He should go home.

Since when had he put off facing things, anyway? Getting old… or maybe there was just more to lose now.

He shut everything down, pulled his coat and scarf from the rack, and turned off the light. It felt like weeks since he'd gone home this early, though he knew it wasn't really. Weeks since he'd found Bodie there ahead of him, since they'd collapsed together on the couch or gone to the pub or… done anything at all that wasn't _work_ …

Bodie's light was still on, but he wasn't there when Doyle stuck his head around the door, his coat was gone and his computer off. Doyle dug his hand around in the plant pot – empty, but for plant. Right then.

He'd driven in, so the trip home was a concentration of roads and rush-hour idiots and people with death wishes out on bicycles, so Horse's Mouth and Merrick, and even Sophie and Kerri remained niggles in the back of his mind, until he realised that he was still deliberately avoiding them.

Bloody Merrick… Maybe if Sophie could get the rest of the formula? Might that be possible? If they _could_ piece it together themselves… But Merrick had government backing, so if they officially announced it as a CI5 project then they'd be shut down before the news got out, their jobs forfeit at best – at worst they'd no doubt be found somewhere, _dead in the woods_. 

_If_ Sophie was even still alive. He'd sent four agents, in various guises, to BioR today, and had nothing back from any of them. Two hadn't even got past security, the _lift engineer_ had been watched every inch of his inspection, and the "new" driver from the supermarket's delivery service, though he'd managed to get all the way up to the canteen and kitchen, hadn't set eyes on her.

He curled his fingers tightly around the steering wheel, feeling the leather give, feeling the metal frame unyielding beneath that. An Audi cut in front of him so that he had to brake sharply, and he snarled silently at it. 

As for Kerri and Horse's Mouth… Was anything she'd said even close to the truth, or had it all been an act? Of course it wasn't the first time a woman had played on his sympathy – and it wasn't the first time he wondered whether he should just avoid them altogether. He'd never had this problem with blokes – he _knew_ when they were trying it on, couldn't think of a single one that'd had him fooled. But _women_ …

It had been good to see Ann the other day though – and he got on alright with Esther, didn't he, and Ruth and Salma and… Of course it was _Bodie_ who was his problem when it came to Ann Holly. And maybe, after all, when it came to the others too…

He turned right into their road, and crept along looking for a space. If they'd taken the place he liked they'd have had their own garage, but no, Bodie'd wanted the higher ceilings and the grander sweep of fireplace… There – he swung in between a Figaro and a bright yellow skip – number thirty one renovating _again_. And really, he was barely fifty yards from the house, so he shouldn’t complain, but…

Bodie's Merc was parked almost directly outside.

He smelled cooking when he pushed the door open, something deeply doused in red wine – boeuf bourgignon, or the like – and he breathed in the richness, the warmth. Bodie'd been back long enough to do that, then.

He heeled out of his shoes, hung up his coat, and stomped down to the end of the hall. No Bodie in the kitchen, though there was indeed a pan on the stove and a fug of steam at the windows. He paused to taste the sauce – good – and to check that the foil parcel by the oven did indeed contain garlic bread, and then he trudged back to the cooler hallway, and upstairs to get changed. 

Jeans, jumper, slippers – home.

Still no Bodie.

He was leaning over the dinner again, trying to feel hungry, when the back door opened behind him, drawing a _whoosh_ of their warm air out into the night. Bodie whirled in, saw him and paused, then closed the door carefully.

"Where the 'ell 'ave you been?" Doyle asked in surprise, "You left all this lot on."

"Just down to Ali's - two minutes." Bodie waved a carton of milk at him, crossed the room and put it in the fridge. "Stopped at Sainsbury's on the way home, forgot to get milk."

Ah…

"You hungry?"

He shrugged, prepared to be civil over a meal, prepared to wait if he had to, to clear the air between them.

"I'll leave it a while then," Bodie said, reaching around him to switch off the hob. "Tea? Beer? Wine?"

"Arsenic?"

Bodie paused again, looked at him, then grabbed a couple of bottles and a bar of soap from the table and headed for the door. "Think I've got some upstairs…"

His stomach twisted. It was time this was sorted.

"Bodie!" He followed him through the warmth of their house, took the stairs two at a time, and grabbed Bodie's arm as he stepped into their bedroom. "Look…"

Bodie looked pointedly down at him, and Doyle paused a moment so that he knew it was choice, and let him go.

"You _know_ nothing happened with Ann, and nothing happened with that bloody girl, and…"

Bodie moved away, disappeared briefly into the en suite, reappeared empty-handed before Doyle could follow him. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Isn't it?"

"You might be more gullible than my Aunt Fanny, but you've told me you don't sleep around behind my back – I believe you."

"I don't…" He didn't sleep with _anyone_ other than Bodie. 

Bodie knew that… 

"I didn't cut into the Howlett op on purpose either, and you _know_ you should have sent Trevors in after Iane!"

Bodie just looked at him.

Then what the fuck _was_ it? "Fucking Merrick…"

"There's nothing more we can do," Bodie said, still watching him, as if he was some wild animal that needed space, that needed calming…

"There's _got_ to be something!" Trouble was, he _did_ feel as if he'd been caged, as if all he could do was rattle at the bars and wait in the hope that one, one day, might break. He thumped his fist onto the chest of drawers instead, it shuddered with his bones from the blow, but remained crouched and solid.

"Ray, you need to chill…"

He needed to _chill_? Before he'd thought, before he'd drawn a breath, he'd picked up the nearest thing to hand and thrown it across the room at Bodie, who ducked automatically to one side, as fast as he ever was against bullets. 

The sound of shattering glass was loud in the otherwise quiet of the evening, of their genteel neighbourhood, and then somewhere below there was a small, dull thud, a pause, and then the loud _whoop-whoop_ of a car alarm began repeating into the night. 

They looked at each other, everything else paused. 

"Fuck..."

Doyle crossed to the cracked star of a window, peered downwards. "I think it's Tom's... Two doors down?" he added, when Bodie blinked at him. "Tall bloke?"

"I thought that was David?"

"No..." Doyle frowned. "Wife and kids have all got red hair?"

"That's them... You going down?"

Doyle sniffed. "S'pose I'd better." He eyed the window ruefully. "It's not as if they won't know where it came from. I didn't think moisturiser'd have that much weight behind it..."

"Not in a plastic tub," Bodie agreed, shaking his head. 

Doyle caught his eye, and looked away quickly, biting his lip. "Suppose it could have been worse - could have been your aftershave."

"You'd've bought me another - bloody expensive that."

"I know, I bought you _that_ one!"

"So you did." Bodie'd stepped up behind him, close behind him, and his murmur vibrated across the air between them. "Close the curtains for now, eh?"

"What?"

Arms slid around his waist, hands firm on his chest for a moment, then down his flanks, around to his thighs… He reached out unsteadily and pulled the curtains shut, felt Bodie's hands press lightly across the front of his jeans, then more certainly as he felt Doyle react. Hot breath on his neck, Bodie's lips…

"What are you…"

"What d'you think?" Bodie's voice was muffled against his skin, was a soft groan in his ear, was an arrow straight to his groin. Bodie pressed against him, cock hard and Doyle braced himself against the window sill with one hand, pushed back.

 _Why_ he wanted to ask, didn't want to ask, didn't care about as he turned around in Bodie's hold, found his lips and kissed him, swept his own fingers across smooth cheeks, neck, the soft wool of Bodie's jumper across the solid breadth of his shoulders, down…down… hands on Bodie's arse, hitching them still closer together, still…

"Bed…" he found breath to say, pulling away from Bodie's mouth, from his tongue, for just a moment, barely a second, before kissing him again, gasping Bodie's breath with his own, matching Bodie's deep moan with his own, so that they moved unsteadily, together, across the room. 

Too long, it'd been too long since they'd…

They stumbled, together, when they reached the bed without noticing, clutched at each other without finding balance, and then fell, entwined, to the mattress. He was pressed under Bodie for a moment, weighted down by him, and wanting nothing other than that, and then they both rolled, came up, half-laughing and breathing hard, from the tangle of duvet and pillows on the un-made bed.

"Fuck…" he said, at the way he wanted Bodie _now_ , needed Bodie _now_. But more than just... "…Me," he added, "Now."

Bodie's laugh froze, became a kiss, became hands frantically undressing him, and he tangled his own with them, trying to strip Bodie at the same time. They got there, somehow they got there, and he wriggled and pushed under Bodie's weight until he was on his stomach, pushing his arse back against Bodie, feeling Bodie's cock straight and hard and true. They waited long enough to fumble for lube, barely long enough to spread it where it would do most good, and then Bodie was sliding into him, so that Doyle's breath caught, nearly a cry, and he gasped and pushed up and back. He wanted Bodie _more_ , he wanted Bodie…

… _there_ , and _there_ , the angle just right, and hard and more and…

He came, Bodie's name loud in the evening air, feeling Bodie's mouth and teeth on his shoulder, one final thrust, and his own name a shout, and Bodie heavy on his back, and it was good, so very… good…

He snuffled awake when Bodie moved, pulling carefully out of him so that Doyle winced, and then missed the feeling of being filled, of being more than just himself. He rolled with Bodie's movement, keeping them together, and Bodie slid an arm under him and around, and Doyle closed his eyes again, breathed out contentedly.

"How the hell d'you think Cowley did it?"

He opened his eyes. _What?_ "Pretty much like the rest of us, I imagine."

Bodie snorted a laugh into his hair, wrapped his other arm around him and _squeezed_ , tight.

"Gerroff," he said, struggling lazily, barely at all. "What d'you mean _how did Cowley do it_?"

"The job," Bodie pressed a kiss into his hair, and Doyle felt his own lips stretch in a smile, because he was _happy_ , he felt happy. "On his own like that."

Ah… "No one to come home to, you mean."

"Yeah…"

"I dunno… Sheer bloody-mindedness, knowing him."

"Yeah… I prefer it this way."

"Me too. Bodie…"

"Shut up, Ray." But Bodie's arms tightened again. "It wasn't anything, it wasn't any of those things. Just all of them, you know?"

He nodded, eyes still closed. Yeah, alright, he knew. 

"I missed you."

He was a grown man, he was co-director of CI5, he'd been partnered with Bodie for nearly thirty years, and they'd had sex and lain in bed like this countless times. And somewhere, close around his heart, he still felt himself melt when Bodie said things like that.

"Yeah, me too." He turned around then, eyes wide open, and kissed him for a long time, molten warmth all through him, and then he pulled away, focussed properly, grinned. "So what about this dinner then?"

Bodie laughed, smacked him hard on his naked arse, and everything, _everything_ was alright.

 

**Chapter Eighteen**

The morning dawned dark as night, and Bodie groaned as the alarm went off, burying his head further away from the noise, into the pillow, into Doyle's shoulder and the curls of his hair, which smelled good. He wasn't going to wake up, not yet, not when he was so comfortable... There was a brief earthquake to his world as Doyle twisted slightly to reach and hit the snooze button, then more warmth, even better warmth, as he rolled back again and stretched an arm down under the duvet to pull them still more closely together. _Morning_...

Their legs were tangled, and he slid his own hand lazily down to cup a rounded buttock, because that was good too, then because he was there he shifted them just slightly closer, so that he could feel Doyle hard against him, delicious heat and pressure on his own cock, and he did it again, and again, humping slowly and languidly and hearing Doyle's breath quicken. More...

Doyle moaned, pushed more firmly against him, and Bodie tilted his head, threaded fingers through Doyle's hair and pulled him down to kiss, moans and breaths and all, and it was so good to have him there, arms and legs wrapped and pressed together, bringing them closer, tighter, harder, more... _now_... He came with a gasp, and in his stillness felt Doyle move just once more, heard one more, longer moan, deep in his throat, felt himself clutched solidly, more tightly, more closely, and delicious... good... sleep...

The snooze went off, and he woke on a breath, reached out his arm and flipped it to Radio Four. 

_Fuck..._ he thought, and then smiled reminiscently.

He took another breath, happy to take on anything the day might throw at him, opened his eyes and found his face pressed close to Doyle's, so he kissed his cheek, ready to get up, changed his mind and kissed him properly instead, waking lips with his own, waking tongue with his own then pulling back and jostling him purposefully.

"Up and at 'em, sunshine!"

Doyle groaned sleepily. "God you're 'orrible when you're in a good mood..."

"Shouldn't put me there then, should you?"

Doyle smiled below him, stretched and looked smug, and Bodie left him to it, going to shower and shave and make a start - another start - on the day.

Maybe they'd send Walters around to BioR with a delivery of cakes - someone's birthday or something, perhaps, it was bound to be _someone's_ in a place that size - get him to keep at eye out for Sophie. Fourteen-one could go around to the house and check _that_ out... 

After a while Doyle slipped past him into the shower, and Bodie watched happily for a moment, as he splashed on his own aftershave and rinsed out the sink, then he wandered back to the bedroom, dressed and went down to make breakfast. Bacon and sausage and toast, and weren't there tomatoes in the back of the fridge...

He pottered happily, coffee in the cafetiere, butter and marmalade and Marmite on the table, found the papers jammed, as usual, halfway through the mailbox. He'd just sat down and picked up knife and fork when Doyle padded in, a gentle wave of shower-freshness and Givenchy.

"Under the grill," he said, gesturing with his knife and then slicing into a sausage. There was a light brush of fingers at his neck, a brief clattering and swearing when the plate proved to be hot, and then Doyle was at the table beside him. He felt himself smiling again, rolled his eyes at himself, and then decided that he didn't care. It was better, they were there together, it all felt _right_ again.

"So what're we going to do about Hollywood?"

He froze, bacon and egg halfway to his mouth, glared over the fork at Doyle, and then pulled a face.

"While I'm eating?"

"Alright - Sophie..."

Sophie was another matter. "She's got to be somewhere - it's not easy to get rid of an employee like that." Although it was, especially someone with a D28, and they both knew it. 

But they had their own ways and means, and between them, over the toast and marmalade, they worked out a rota of agents for the day, a system of checks and searches, an even closer, but surreptitious surveillance of BioR, from a distance, from inside, through fibre optic cables and across the ether. They'd track her down.

Eventually the last of the coffee was gone, even the dishes were washed, and they were pulling on holsters and scarves, collecting papers and keys.

Bodie reached out and grabbed Doyle's coat lapel just as he put a hand on the doorknob, pulled him back towards him. Cloth twisted in his fingers, he put his lips on Doyle's, their bodies close together again, and he moved so that they were touching all the way from lips, down chest, hips, thighs. One more second, just... one more. Then out to that other world.

Doyle made a token protest, deep in his throat, but he let his briefcase slide to the ground, put his arms around Bodie's neck and kissed him back, properly. When he pulled away it was only far enough to press his forehead to Bodie's, eyes closed. 

"We're alright," he said, "this is us here, at home," and Bodie felt any tiny weight that remained vanish even further into nothingness. Then Doyle kissed his cheek, picked up his briefcase, and squeezed his hand quickly, smiling, and pulled him out the door.

He let Doyle turn him towards the Triumph, tucking happily enough down in its low seats. They'd go in together again, show Petra and Kerri and the fucking world that it didn't get to them that easily. He listened idly to the chat on Radio Four, concentrated on Doyle beside him, the peace of it all amidst rush hour chaos, and by the time they got to HQ he was ready for the fight again.

"Morning John - how's the family?"

"Total madness - Molly's decided she wants to do one of them cookery courses, and she keeps adding dried apricots and bits of fruit to the beef stew..."

"Nothing like some old fruit," Bodie muttered with a quick pat to Doyle's bum as they stepped into the lift, grinning when it turned out to be full of agents so that Doyle had to be polite and civilised for the duration.

He even managed to turn it into a smile for Salma as she handed over their post and began listing their meetings for the day, waiting patiently to put a kaibbosh on the whole lot with a few well-chosen words. In the meantime he watched Doyle's face as he considered the appointments, tried to interrupt and get a word in edgewise to stop her. 

"...and finally one of your red flags came up just ten minutes ago, Ray - I didn't phone you, since you were on your way in anyway. A man called Darrow tried to report his girlfriend missing at about seven o' clock this morning, was given sharp shrift by the local station and kicked up a bit of a fuss. They let him go, but..."

 _Darrow?_ "Shit..." 

Doyle was already moving, into his office to log on to the incident report, to find names and people to talk to, and Bodie followed him, dropping his briefcase beside Doyle's desk, leaning over the back of his chair and waiting impatiently for everything to fire up.

"We should go find him..."

"We _can't_ ," Bodie reminded him, "We can't be seen near BioR..."

" _Fucking_ Merrick - this has gone too far, you know as well as I do that there's something wrong there!"

"But we've no _proof_..." How many times had Cowley said that to them, when they were on the streets, had sent them out to find something, to dig in the dirt until they _had_ what they needed? But this was the twenty first century, and this time their hands were firmly tied - they'd been warned away, and without a legitimate and external reason to approach the place... He ran a hand through his hair, frowned, tried desperately to think of something, could feel Doyle's tension as he frowned, racked his brain. 

The file came up - Darrow had tried to report _Sophie Spinney_ missing - she'd not been in work at all on Monday, wasn't at home when he got up at five thirty this morning, and he'd not set eyes on her since Saturday when they'd had breakfast together and she'd said she was nipping in to work. He'd had to go home for the weekend, but she'd not answered her phone, not texted him the whole time - why wouldn't the police take him seriously? Darrow was described as _distraught_ , had been sent away with a promise that someone would look into it as soon as they could be spared...

"Bloody useless locals..." Bodie muttered automatically, didn't take it personally when Doyle snapped back at him about the Met being eternally understaffed and overworked. 

"There's got to be _something_ we can do!" Doyle ended, almost in a roar, "this is ridiculous!"

"I know... Maybe they've picked up something in Comms," he suggested, hating the frustration of inaction as much as Doyle did. They could at least scan the phone taps, see if the transcripts had garnered anything interesting from that morning.

"Like a nice confession, all on record, just waiting for us to find?"

"Yeah, just like that," Bodie agreed, with a twist of his lips, meeting Doyle's gaze and holding on for his life. "Or we could just sit around here and shout about it!"

Doyle let out a breath, scrunched his fingers through his hair and tightened them for a moment. Bodie watched as the curls relentlessly straightened, were released, and bounced back to loose coils and springs. "Come on, poodle," he said, nudged him with one shoulder, "We'll send Rafe for coffee and see what we can overhear."

Doyle nodded grimly, let himself be bullied to the door. "And you can tell Salma we're cancelling the heads of department meeting this morning..."

"She's the only one who'll be upset," Bodie let himself say, "All those minutes she'll miss..."

"Bo- _die_!"

There was, of course, nothing in the phone transcripts, and even the bugs Sophie'd managed to place seemed to be dead. The computer forwarded them across the long stretches of silence, but even then the only voices were distant, cleaners and the occasional security guard, from the sound of things. Yet surely she'd bugged meeting rooms, and the Manager's office? But it was quiet, from Saturday morning, all through the weekend, and into the week.

"Bit odd, innit?" Doyle said thoughtfully, "You'd think a place like that would have something going on all the time..."

"They found the surveillance," Bodie decided grimly. There was no other explanation. He glanced at his watch - nearly ten. "Do we have Darrow's phone number?"

"We need to go in," Doyle said urgently. "There's no real reason we can't - no injunction against us..."

"A ministerial warning..." Bodie shook his head slowly, reluctantly. "You might be right."

"Right then..."

"Bodie!" Ruth's voice, loud in their headsets, "There's a 999 call from BioR right now - patching you through."

"...c-can't find a pulse... she's dead, help me..."

"If you hold your hand against her face, can you feel her breathing, Oliver? Oliver?"

"N-no... The bastards have killed her... I'm going to untie her, I'll put you on sp- speaker..."

"Can you see blood anywhere, Oliver? Is there any sign that she might be hurt somewhere?"

Rustling, sobs in the background. "God... oh god..."

"Oliver? Mr Darrow? The police and an ambulance will be with you shortly, Oliver, can you talk to me?"

Doyle was up and heading for the door whilst Bodie was still listening. "There's our reason - get the lads out, I'm going on ahead..."

"Doyle!" But he was gone, in a swirl of coat that had never been taken off, and Bodie rubbed at his face for a moment, reached into his pocket for his bluetooth, and hooked it over his free ear, then began calling out commands, sending agents across the building running for their cars, for the armoury, for Sophie's life.

 

**Chapter Nineteen**

It was surprisingly quiet at BioR when Doyle arrived, driving through to the visitor's parking in front of the pale-bricked building, past carefully landscaped paths and neatly barked tree beds. There was even a weak sun in the sky, and a gaggle of white-coated smokers at the far end had come outside with their mugs and cancer sticks to take advantage of it, watching him curiously as he looked the place up and down. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and yet somewhere inside Oliver Darrow was bent over Sophie's... Well, there was no confirmation yet, he'd lost the emergency call of course when he left the Comms room, but Bodie hadn't called to say she was still alive, and he would, Doyle knew he would do that.

He rummaged briefly in the glovebox, pulled out his Health and Safety Executive badge, and then his extra briefcase from behind the passenger seat. Keep it simple but ominous, and use the word _audit_ as often as possible, that usually did the trick. There were three floors to the place, and two wings, if he was lucky he'd be able to ditch his tour guide in the canteen or the loos and have a quick scout around before the ambulance arrived. 

Without further hesitation he swung out of the car, making a bit of a show of it to prove to his small audience that he was no one interesting, stood beside the Triumph for a moment fiddling with a speck on the bonnet, looking up under his lashes and fringe to the tinted windows of the building. Simple sun protection, or...

A shot rang out, and he snapped his head up - second floor, somewhere in the middle of the left wing - then another, and another. He'd dropped his case and was running for the entrance before the screams began, but abruptly there was a smashing of glass, and bullets razing the ground in front of him, so that he threw himself behind the low and elegantly sculpted hedge on the other side of the entrance, his own gun drawn. 

The screams grew louder, and the glass doors of the entrance suddenly parted in a spew of frantically running and stumbling people, one or two of the ground floor windows opened to disgorge more escapees, and to his right he heard the distinctive _snap-slam_ of a fire door, and then the shrill ringing of an alarm bell. He scrabbled to his feet, ran desperately for the end of the building, and caught the door with his fingertips just before it closed again. 

It was quieter inside as more and more people managed to get out, and he chose a door at random, entered carefully, and disappeared inside as soon as he knew it was empty. A laboratory of some kind, all benches and stools, computers and fume hoods, and hanging on the door - white coats. He ditched his distinctive woollen one, a present from Bodie, hoping against hope that he'd be able to retrieve it, rummaged briefly to find a lab coat that was likely to fit, and shoved a pair of safety specs and a pencil into the top pocket. Right.

Cautiously he emerged once more, made his way from door to door along the hallway, pausing to peer into each one - all empty, abandoned. Now and then he stood still, listened. The alarm had been turned off, and the only sounds left seemed to come from above, far enough away that they were probably the opposite wing.

He could make his way to the central corridor, but surely they'd be watching that... Or he could go back to the fire escape at the other end of the hallway - but there was no guarantee that once he was out he'd be able to get back in again. Fuck.

He pressed back into another doorway, not entering properly, but far enough that he couldn't be seen from the end of the hall, and pulled out his phone. _Fuck_ , he'd left his bluetooth in his coat pocket... He dialled Bodie - bloody engaged - then sent him a text instead. _Inside_ was all it said. He hesitated, finger hovering above the _Send_ button, then added a quick _lR_ and sent it on its silent way. He'd be back for dinner tonight, if not lunch, after all. _Bad medicine_ , Bodie would have said, but it was too late now, he'd done it.

He looked up and down the corridor again, then back into the room behind him - the gents', slightly acrid, but scented overall with something vaguely citrussy. No windows, just ventilation shafts, though there was a missing polystyrene ceiling tile above one cubicle. If he'd had building plans he could have worked his way up that way - but then if he had x-ray vision and superhuman strength that would have helped too. Nothing for it, he'd have to chance the main stairs if he was going to get up there. 

From outside came the wail of approaching sirens - ambulance and police at the same time, by the sound of it - then he jumped as there was another blast of sub-machinegun fire from above. Another warning? In any case, now was the time, whilst they were distracted - whoever they were. He ran swiftly to the end of the corridor, peered around, and then began the quick dodge to the other side of the building, and then to the stairwell, up the steps, around the bannister, up the steps again... He flattened himself behind the door with its long, thin window to the corridor, tried to control his breathing. He might make the grade seven on targets, but there was no doubt about it - he wasn't as fast any more, and it took him nearly twice as long to get his wind back. 

There was vibration from his trouser pocket, and he glanced down, startled, nearly giggled when he realised what it was. With an ear to the door, he pulled out his mobile, silenced Bodie's call. He didn't dare try and talk, not this close. _2nd Flr_ he texted, _2 subguns ?men noSophyet_.

Right. There was shouting from a few doors along, though he couldn't make out the words, and he took the chance to edge out of the stairwell, and into the room next door - another lab, long and lined with benches and equipment again. There was another door, slightly ajar, at the far end this time, tucked into the back corner adjacent to the long windows, and he made his way from bench to bench until he stood outside it. The voices seemed louder, and when he peered through there was a rectangular outline of light shining along and across from the other side - a connecting storeroom of some sort, shelves of glass jars along one wall, what looked like spare equipment on the opposite side, and a row of tall gas cylinders at the far end, by the other door. 

He stepped inside, and the voices resolved into clear sentences - two men at least, who sounded authoritarian, at least pretending to be in charge, one of them cursing at someone sobbing softly, the other apparently talking on the phone.

 _...fucking out of here now - it's too late for softly-softly, I'm telling you, and if they take us we're talking... Yeah, you say that, but you've got no clout in the Scrubs, man, you don't own_ that _company - once we're in we're in and you won't lift a finger to help us then!_ This is your company, so it's now or never, you've got to...

The man continued in the same vein, but Doyle had already heard all he needed. _This is your company..._ He pulled out his mobile again, checked that his own tracker was set to receive, and sent off a saved draft to HQ. _Code 2346_ \- collect and record mobile phones in ten meter range: detain recipients of calls. It was invasive, it was intrusive, it was against the law for any other service - and since it was within his power, they'd have Peter Merrick bang to rights at last. 

While he was tapping, he sent Bodie another text as well, giving him his approximate location, and then began to move slowly forward again, through the shelf-narrowed room. He kept his gun out, ready, tucked the lab coat tightly around him so that it wouldn't snag on something jutting precariously into the room, and eased his way closer to the open door, wondering if he'd be able to see a reflection, perhaps, of who was in the room in the slightly smoky glass of its windows. 

Except the trouble with that...

There was a sudden rushing outside, gasps from half a dozen people, and a cut-off curse from the man on the telephone, and he had just time to slide his gun into the back of his trousers, to thank god that he was wearing a decent belt, and then there was a figure in front of him, and he was being roughly pulled into the other room by his hair, shoved to his knees on the floor, and the hard black muzzle of an Uzi Eagle was against his throat.

" _Who the fuck are you_?"

Doyle opened his mouth, licked his lips to gain some time, as if he was frightened, as if he was terrified and could barely speak. It was all but the truth.

"Mm.." he stuttered, caught the tiny shake of her head from one of the women sitting on the floor. "I'm..." He paused, licked his lips again.

"Williams!" the woman gasped out, "He's Bill Williams!"

Bill Williams? Still, why not - and at least there was one person in the room who'd caught onto who he might really be, even if it did probably mean she watched too much television.

"So, _Bill_..." the man moved his gun, prodded him solidly in the chest with it, and when Doyle looked down he saw letters, clearly stitched in red cotton. _Wm Williams_ it said, and he caught the eye of the woman who'd warned him, nodded just slightly in thanks. "...what the fuck do you think you were doing? Gonna be a hero?"

"N-no..." he said, carrying on as a stuttering wreck, just an old fool of a scientist. "F-fell asleep and w-woke up a-and..."

"Will you shut _up_ ," the man with the telephone roared, suddenly, "He's bloody hung up on me now!"

"What're we going to do then?" Doyle was released, shoved towards the small group crouched on the floor between two lab benches, given an extra kick for good measure. He winced, tried to look cowed, and glanced around at his fellow hostages. Four women in white coats, two men who looked like they might be porters, and... Oliver Darrow and a dazed looking Sophie. 

His heart lifted - he hadn't killed her, then - and he tried to catch her eye, but she just stared vaguely back at him. There was blood matted in her hair, and a tremble to her - concussed, he thought, if not worse. She was half-slumped against Darrow, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. He'd been caught then, perhaps mid-emergency call, and panicked...whoever these two were. Merrick's men, by the looks, though not apparently all that bright. Hired muscle, then, and scared. Dangerous.

Surrounded too, by now - police outside, and Bodie too, most likely, a strong force of their own agents, trained negotiators... He just had to hold on, hope that he could keep everyone alive, and wait for Bodie to get them out of there.

Right then.

"Oi, _Parry_ , I said what we going to _do_?"

The man who'd been on the phone turned back from the window, snarled at his companion. "We wait. Merrick'd better get us out of here or we'll go right down there and tell 'em exactly what he's been up to."

Did they _know_ what he'd been up to? Surely not... Doyle breathed lightly, hoped for them to carry on talking, exulted inwardly at hearing the bastard's name said out loud, in front of witnesses. _Copper's nose_ \- it had got them to the right place, at the right time, yet again.

It wasn't long ago he'd been remembering that their luck would have to run out one day...

He sniffed, feeling the hard floor pressed against his hip bone, the already-blossoming bruise where Parry's mate had kicked him, every one of his fifty five years. Not today though, he was too _alive_ for that today - and Bodie'd be expecting him home tonight.

"Here - _copper_!" Parry snapped out, and Doyle felt his heart stop, skip a beat, then pound hard against his chest. But of course it wasn't him, they didn't know about him, they knew about... "...or _reporter_ , or bloody _snoop_ or whatever you are. Get over here!"

Sophie didn't move, beyond the same flinch they'd all managed at the tone of the man's voice. She probably couldn't.

"I said..." Parry strode through the hostages, who pulled back as far as they could under the benches out of his way, grabbed Sophie away from Darrow and tried to drag her to her feet. "Come 'ere!" Her feet stamped a little, as if trying to find purchase on the floor, but she didn't rise, seemed to be a dead weight, and Parry let her go. 

"She _can't_!" Darrow managed, "You did that to her!"

"Shut up." Parry turned slightly to focus on him, frowned. "I'd use you instead but you're not pretty enough for the cameras - they'll all be here soon, won't they, the BBC and _Sky_ and all. We'll tell _them_ what's been going on, that's what we'll do." He pulled a handgun from his pocket, waved it casually around. "Now, it'll have to be a girl, and..." he focussed on one of them, a petite brunette with a pixie haircut and big brown eyes. "You'll do."

"You leave her alone!"

"Shut up," Parry said again, ignoring Darrow and reaching towards the girl with his free hand. She slid back on the floor, away from him, and Doyle tensed for trouble.

"You - leave - her - _alone_!" But it was Darrow who jumped to his feet, who lunged towards Parry to stop him, and it was Parry's mate who fired his gun in panic, catching Darrow square in the chest, throwing him backwards with the force of the shot, to lie sprawled and dead across the floor. 

The whole room seemed to freeze, and then one of the girls screamed, and Parry had turned again, chaos unleashed, was aiming his gun for her instead, and Doyle found himself on his feet, gun drawn, shot fired to take out Parry's mate, and then spinning to Parry himself. 

Parry's arm swung upwards towards him, and he flung himself backwards against the doorway, hostages scattering around him, then rolled along the wall, under the bench, not as elegantly as he would once have done it, he thought in those split seconds of clarity, searching desperately for an angle that wouldn't endanger the civilians. But Parry had fired while Doyle was still moving, at the open doorway where he had briefly been, and his shot rang loudly through the lab, a bullet-sharp _crack_ followed by a peculiar metallic _ping_. Parry's eyes widened suddenly, and Doyle looked back and saw a sudden rush of powder-white gas shoot out from inside the storage room. Then the world erupted into a whine and a scream and a dull explosion, as the wall beside him seemed to erupt outwards, to topple, and all he could do was duck his head down, and pull himself inwards as much as possible for protection, the world juddering around him. It wasn't enough. There was a sharp _crash_ somewhere to his right, an acrid smell of burning, of something chemical burning, and he started to move, tried to stand, but something hit his head, a heavy pain, and then everything went dark.

 

**Chapter Twenty**

Bodie saw the explosion as a burst of glass from the window of the laboratory, was off and running towards the doors before he thought about it. 

He was stopped, of course he was stopped, just as he would have stopped anyone else from rushing in there, and he pushed futilely for a moment against the restraining hands of whoever it was - Grey, he realised eventually, and Robinson. The world was a roar in his ears, fire trucks springing into action, firefighters rushing into the building with their hoses, shouting competent commands to each other. He watched helplessly from the wrong side of the fancy plate glass windows - _BioR - our future is your future_ \- as they practically flew up the stairs, dragging their equipment behind them. When they vanished he turned towards the laddered appliance, the firefighters who had already risen to the highest windows, who were gushing some sort of foam into the building, a solid white rush of muck.

Doyle was up there, somewhere...

There was little he could do while the emergency services went about their work, making things safe, searching the wreckage, bringing out survivors, although he frantically tried to text the daft sod, feeling all thumbs and uselessness. Twenty years ago they couldn't have stopped him getting through... He tried to take comfort in the fact that there was very little smoke, and he didn't see flames, but... Doyle would have had his phone on _Silent_ if he was creeping around, so of course he wouldn't hear the texts, and he was probably busy with some injured innocent and… 

In the meantime, Bodie organised agents, he made sure Merrick had been detained, he kept busy.

"Sir?"

His head whipped up. One of the firefighters, Red Watch someone had said... Haynes?

"The building seems to be reasonably secure now," Haynes said, "It was a liquid nitrogen blast, though there was a small subsidiary fire on the top floor. If you want to take a look, I'll accompany you..."

But Bodie was already striding through the now-open automatic doors, waiting impatiently for his escort to walk ahead of him up the stairs, to show him the way to the centre of the explosion. 

"..are four bodies as well as the injured, I'm afraid - two women apparently killed by sherds of glass, and two men - Mr Bodie, I need you to tread carefully through here. We haven't found anyone of Mr Doyle's description, I'm afraid."

"He was here," Bodie said with a glance at the man, with certainty. "He's _got_ to be here."

Glass scrunched underfoot, there seemed to be glass _every_ where, and a strange smell, and destruction and chaos. Doyle'd said second floor, he'd been on the second floor... 

The wall on one side of the corridor was twisted and warped, but mostly still standing until they reached the room where the explosion had gone off, and there it seemed to hang loosely from the ceiling, no strength left to it. Haynes took them through what was left of the doorway, past the overturned wreckage of the laboratory, and pointed to a hole in the back wall, to a gap in a row of five tall metal cylinders, and then upwards, to where a fifth cylinder was wedged tightly into the ceiling.

"Looks like it was pierced by a bullet," Haynes said, "They'll take off like a rocket - it's called a _BLEVE_..."

"Blevvy," Bodie repeated, looking around the room in a daze, "But no explosion..."

"No _flammable_ explosion. Sucked all the air out of the room above, amongst other things - that's where one of the victims had been hiding from the gunmen, we found her crouched in the corner not far from where the cylinder came through, asphyxiated."

 _Her_.

Behind him he heard Grey and Robinson entering the room, swearing and whistling under their breath. After a moment there were louder voices as they set about reporting in to Jax, organising this and that part of the investigation, doing what they had to...

He froze suddenly in the doorway, eyes wide, and then whipped out his own phone, bypassing Jax and calling Karen. "I need a mobile override _right now_ ," he snapped when she answered, "Oh-double-seven…"

_Doyle would have his phone set to silent…_

"Thirty seconds, sir," Karen said into his ear, and he breathed the moments through, as still as he could be, as calm… "That's it."

He didn't bother with manners, hung up on her, and dialled Doyle's number. Around him the rescue operation crashed on, scrapes of metal, of chairs overturned, the constant crushing of safety glass underfoot.

"Shut up!" he shouted, to Haynes, to the agents behind him, to anyone nearby. He could hear firefighters talking in the room next door, an ambulance siren in the distance, growing louder, and... _The Sweeney_. He'd changed Doyle's ringtone again that morning while Doyle was in the bog, and Doyle hadn't changed it back again, had left it set to the theme of that daft tv series, and now, somewhere in this room, somewhere under the destruction and chaos, his phone was ringing.

 _Doyle?_ "Ray!" Somewhere ahead, towards the back of the room, closer to the blast damage... _oh fuck_... "Doyle!" He looked frantically around, was aware of other people rushing into the room, ignored them. Somewhere... There - that'd been a store room of some sort at the back, there were shelves still standing on one side, _the other side_ , but the rest were sticking out from the floor, from... a mountain range of shelves, of rubble that rose upwards, cracked all along its spine, and something underneath...

"There was a lab bench on the wall," someone shouted suddenly, pushing past him even as he stared at the mess, tried to work it all out. Grey and Robinson started pulling at pieces of sheet rock, exposing metal bracketing beneath, and under that... 

"He's here," Grey said suddenly, looking up at him, and Bodie met his eyes as _The Sweeney_ finally stopped mid-note. There was no movement, no relieved groan from under the toppled bench. He took a breath, and stepped across to that side of the rubble. There were dust-covered, suit-clad legs, Doyle's favourite soft white shirt, battered and torn now, and a streak of blood across the back of Doyle's neck.

"On three..." Robinson had cleared away enough of the detritus that they could move the bracketing, push it to topple over, away from the... away from Doyle. 

"Ray?"

Doyle lay face-down, hands raised to cover his head. Bodie swallowed, waved Grey away when he would have leaned over them, and reached out to feel for the pulse in Doyle's neck. His hands were warm, but it wasn't cold in the lab, so that didn't mean anything, and he was still, he was so still...

But there - movement? The slightest of throbs against his fingers? He waited, breath held - did he feel it, had he...? _Yes!_

"Ambulance!" he roared, and wondered that he didn't wake Doyle with that, because the agents beside him jumped, and there were gasps and curses all around them. He heard the firefighters calling out to each other again, people suddenly everywhere, doing their jobs, then was vaguely aware of two men with a stretcher behind him, that they were trying to move him out of the way. Eventually he did, he moved because they were very insistent, and Doyle was so still, and he knew he shouldn't turn him over, but they could, they could do it, and then Doyle was strapped to the stretcher and they were carrying him over the detritus of the lab, through the hole in the wall, down the stairs...

He held onto Doyle's hand, all the way, only let go to let them lift the stretcher gently into the ambulance, settling it, settling Doyle, arranging an oxygen mask…

He looked vaguely around, waiting until he could get in with Doyle and the bloke who was looking after him, at everyone busily doing their job, and pursed his lips, because that way he wouldn't make any embarrassing noises.

"Mr Bodie?" 

Dark-haired girl... Petra. Petra was standing in front of him, frowning a bit, looking... looking sorry for him. 

"Mr Bodie, I'm so sorry that your friend's been hurt..."

He took a breath, which wasn't a sniff, though he rubbed his nose anyway, in case she thought it was, and nodded. Still couldn't say anything.

The other members of Horse's Mouth were huddled beside a car, presumably theirs, except for Kerri who had her camera in hand and was filming the small line up of white-covered bodies, _little ghoul_ , pointing her lens at once after another in apparent fascination. Bodie took another breath, glanced back into the ambulance, where they were still fussing, not quite ready to leave yet.

"Wait?" he asked, less firmly than he would have liked, and strode over to Kerri. She paid him no attention at all, and so he reached out, took the camera and threw it far away, gripped her arm, and drew her slowly, firmly, to stand in front of him. He looked at her for a moment, a long stare, and then he turned around and dragged her with him, propelled her into the arms of Robinson. "Get her _out_ , get them all out, and don't let them back in for _any_ reason!" He put his face close to Kerri's, close enough that she tried to draw back against Robinson. "Come anywhere near BioR again and I will see that the Minister puts a _permanent_ end to _your career_ \- understand?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then blinked and closed it again, eyes wide. 

"Mr Bodie?"

He turned, wanting only to get back to the ambulance, found his way blocked by Belle and Levitt and two men, one very familiar.

"You wanted anyone to whom calls had been made during the siege, sir?"

"Oh yes…" They were going to pay. If Doyle didn't… 

They were going to pay.

"Who's that one?" he asked, the small blond not someone he recognised.

Belle leaned in, spoke in his ear. "Husband of the asphyxiation victim, sir."

He nodded, pursed his lips. "Look after him. And," he didn't give Merrick the satisfaction of looking at him again, "make sure that one's taken down to HQ – maximum security."

"You won't get away with this," Merrick said, calmly, coolly. Bodie ignored him, turned back to the ambulance, which was closing one of its back doors. "You can't do this, and you _know_ it! My lawyer…"

He didn't hear what Merrick's lawyer would do, he didn't care, because the ambulance man took his arm and helped him into the vehicle, let him sit on the empty stretcher opposite Doyle, let him hold his hand again.

 

**Chapter Twenty One**

Doyle woke, as he had so often over so many years, to the sight of Bodie's weary face, long eyelashes dark on pale cheeks, stubble shining silver these days, but still heavy. One day, he thought vaguely, he'd wake up and Bodie wouldn't be there, wouldn't be slumped uncomfortably in a visitor's chair, or maybe he wouldn't wake up at all - and then where would Bodie be?

Perhaps he'd made a sound, or his breathing had changed, or perhaps Bodie just _knew_ , because his eyelashes lifted, his gaze moved straight to Doyle's bed, to Doyle's own face, and Doyle saw the moment that he focussed properly, the moment he realised.

Doyle tried to smile, though it pulled at the muscles of his face, and his head _hurt_ , a sheet of pain across everything. He didn't mind, though, when Bodie came over to the bed and put a hand to his cheek, when he ran his thumb gently across his temple, even though that hurt too.

Bodie smiled back at him, and it was all enough, and so he closed his eyes and slept again.

o0o

The next time Doyle woke he was thirsty, and Bodie was pacing one corner of the hospital room, on his mobile and unhappy about it, if his expression was anything to go by.

Doyle watched for a moment, and then he just needed to know. "Soph-ie?" he managed, his throat feeling raw, though his headache had reduced to a dull throb in the back of his skull. 

Bodie turned immediately. "Call you back," he said into the receiver, then slid the phone shut and gestured with it. "'bout time you woke up, people keep bothering me on this thing."

Doyle smiled, because Bodie wanted him to, because they were both still there. "How's…" he began, broke off when Bodie picked up the water jug by his bed, poured a plastic glass of water, and then helped him sit up a little, against a great pile of pillows, to sip from it.

"She's holding her own," Bodie said. "She'll be alright. You want me to call the nurse?" He perched himself on the edge of the bed, let his hand rest on Doyle's hip, on top of the blankets.

Alive then. Good. Darrow hadn't been so lucky. He took another sip of water, cool on his lips, his throat, feeling more awake by the second as it all came flooding back. "Nah. Merrick?"

Bodie made a face. "Denying it all, but he can't deny that phone call. Parry's not talking yet, but he will. Might have been worth you going in, at that. "

He took a breath, wanting it over. "You going to have a shout about it?" 

They looked at each other for a moment, over the smell of antiseptic and the corridor sounds of the hospital going about its business, then Bodie took his hand, played absently with his fingers.

"Nah, doesn't do any good does it? S'pose we're both as bad as each other." 

"You'd better give us a kiss instead then," Doyle suggested, tugging at Bodie's hand so he'd move a little further up the bed. 

Bodie did, leaning down, kissing him gently on his forehead, then the side of his nose, finally his lips, and then he sat back again.

"I was scared up there, you know," Doyle confessed, looking down at the blankets on the bed, picking at a loose thread or two, "Couldn't get my breath back after dashing about, thought I might not be able to pull my gun fast enough when the time came..."

"Yeah." Bodie stilled his fingers with his own hand, a heavy warmth over Doyle's, laced them together. "Maybe next time wait for one of the lads. _We'll_ wait for one of the lads."

"Or lasses," Doyle suggested, because he didn't want to make it worse by _crying_ about it. It had almost been a dream, but that moment when he'd _known_ that one of them was going to go before the other... was doing to _die_ first... 

"Or lasses," Bodie agreed. "It's all change..." His phone went off in his pocket, a loud _Reveille_ , and he glanced down, startled, so that Doyle smiled. Not yet, though. "Bloody technology," Bodie said, and reached for it, looking resigned.

Doyle took it out of his hand before he could answer, switched it off and then tucked it somewhere done in the bedclothes. "Let's not," he said. "I'd rather..."

" _I'd_ rather know at least one of you had some sense of responsibility!" Salma's voice came loudly to them from the doorway, where she stood, besuited but with a smile on her face. She waved her mobile at them so that they could see the _Dialling…_ message across the display, then turned it off and dropped it into her bag. In her other hand she was carrying two large envelopes, and a paper bag bulging in a suspiciously grape-like way. "You're as bad as each other..."

Doyle smiled at that, caught Bodie smiling too, and exchanged amused looks with him. "You'd better give us a kiss then," he said, and grinned even harder at Bodie's mock outrage. Salma just rolled her eyes.

"A little something," she said, holding out the grapes and one of the envelopes.

Doyle grimaced. "I hope that's not work already – I've only just woken up!"

"Fraud – they'll probably let you go at lunchtime."

"They will?" He glanced hopefully at Bodie, who shrugged and nodded. "NHS shortages are good for something then…" He _did_ feel alright, he felt better than alright. Sophie would be okay, they'd got Merrick… and surely what that meant for BioR's formula was… He smiled again, reached for a grape.

"Nothing wrong with you," Bodie grinned, though when he ruffled Doyle's hair it was more of a caress. "You're just slacking."

"Yeah…" Time to go home… He opened the envelope, pulled out a card embossed with a giant pink teddy bear, and signed by what looked like half of CI5. He read the messages, Bodie leaning down on one elbow to read alongside him. Most were some variation on _Get well soon_ , with one or two suggesting that there were better places to take a holiday, but the joint effort by Belle and Levitt had him looking askance at Bodie again. "I thought you just said… Were you going to mention this?"

"What?" Bodie squinted at the card.

"You need glasses, you do - _that_!" He jabbed at a scrawl of blue ink in one corner.

_Parry caved. Merrick officially charged. Buy tomorrow's paper._

Bodie blinked. "That's new this morning, that is – he was still holding out last night!"

"I believe he might have caught a glimpse of Patrick Merrick being taken to one of the holding cells," Salma said from the end of the bed, "He didn't take it very well, from what I've heard…"

"Mr Bodie, I thought you promised you'd call the nurse when your friend woke up?" A tall, grey haired and serious-looking woman interrupted them from the doorway. "Just because you have your privileges doesn't mean…"

"Sorry, Sister…" Bodie began smoothly, at the same time as Salma said, "It's my fault, Carol…" and Bodie broke off to glare at her.

"Fight over who's taking me home," Doyle suggested cheerfully, knowing who'd win that one.

"How are you feeling, Mr Doyle?" Carol asked, gesturing Bodie away so that she could peer at the monitor beside the bed. She turned around and lifted his wrist, smiling and shrugging when Doyle raised an eyebrow at her. "Old habits die hard," she said, "I never trust the machines on their own."

"Just don't try giving him a bed bath, later," Bodie said warningly, "They've got male nurses for that now, you know… No - hold on a minute…"

"Perhaps you'd like to take Mrs Patel for a coffee, while we get your friend sorted out?" Carol waved them pointedly towards the door. "There's a good canteen…"

"…up on the fourth floor…" Bodie parrotted along with her, "We know, we've been there…"

"That's my cue, anyway," Salma said, "I'll see you back at the office. One of these days."

Bodie sat through Carol's questions and the doctor's visit and examination, as Doyle had known he would. He was there when Doyle was pronounced fit to be allowed home, he was there listening to the post-care instructions, and he was there watching as Doyle got slowly, carefully dressed, feeling whole but bruised and stiff, in a fresh set of clothes.

"Seen enough?" he asked, running fingers through his hair, shaking it out. He'd comb it properly when he got home, had a shower, stopped smelling of _hospital_.

"Never," Bodie said, reaching out to pick up Doyle's bag for him, and Doyle had just reached out himself, was pulling on the sleeve of Bodie's jacket to bring them closer together, when there was a scuffling at the doorway, then a muffled _…don't care…they won't get away with this…_ and Kerri and Petra appeared together in the doorway, looking somewhat worse for wear, followed by an apologetic Salma. 

"Not now, Petra," Doyle began, "You are _not_ filming me in my deathbed or whatever you're hoping it is!"

"They're not filming at all any more," Bodie agreed, "I fired them. _Yesterday_."

"He didn't do it, you know."

"I did!" Bodie said firmly, but there was something else, Doyle thought, about the expression on Kerri's face…

"Who didn't do what?" Doyle looked at her sternly. She'd pushed into the room defiantly, was standing with her hands thrust into the pockets of her sleeveless puffa jacket and her legs firmly planted.

"Peter Merrick, he didn't do anything – it was those other men, they were the ones who…"

"What are you talking about? If you were hired by Merrick…"

"I wasn't _hired_ by Merrick, he's my _father_ , and he recommended my company because he knew…"

"What d'you mean _your_ company? Your _father_?" Doyle looked from one to the other of the girls, feeling as if he was in the middle of a soap opera. If he was, he thought resignedly, it was _East Enders_ , or _Corrie_ , where they spent all their time shouting at each other in grotty bedsits rather than anything decently glamorous. 

"Kerri's the director," Petra said. " _Horse's Mouth_ is hers – I've got my own marketing consultancy, I was just helping out. Toby's the real cameraman," she added helpfully, and Kerri shot her a baleful look. "Well he is."

Doyle turned to Salma, who was looking sheepish but also slightly vengeful. "I was going to tell you when you were feeling up to work, but then I saw them as I was leaving, and…"

"Tell me what?"

"I believe his exact words to Belle were _But it'll be my bastard who gets rid of them in the end, and they won't be able to stop her._ "

"He did _not_ say that!" Kerri shouted, turning to Salma and raising her hand. 

Petra ducked backwards, and Bodie stepped in smartly, grabbed Kerri by the wrist and held her firmly at arms length. "I think we'd better make an urgent appointment with the Minister," he said calmly to Doyle, "Don't you?"

 

**Chapter Twenty Two**

The Minister came to them, since Doyle had been injured only the day before, knocking on their door in Kensington with a firm knuckle, his official car waiting patiently in the street for him to reappear, his business done. Bodie shot the chauffeur a sympathetic look before he closed the door – this was going to take longer than the Minister had planned, if he had his way.

"Peter Merrick and Horse's Mouth," he said, with no other preamble, once the Minister had refused a drink and was sitting down. 

"You know, you've put us in a spot of bother there," the Minister dodged, "Merrick was rather _in favour_ in Downing Street, and his being arrested isn't going to help government credibility at all."

"It's not supposed to," Doyle said grimly. "But then he shouldn't have spent so much time kidnapping young women, arranging their demise, and trying to hide advances in medical technology, should he?"

"If by _young women_ you mean your… What do you mean, _advances in medical technology_?"

Bodie turned and opened the old desk he'd been leaning against, retrieved the papers from Liu that he'd collected on their way home and tossed them onto the coffee table. "He means these – cure for flu, the common cold, that sort of thing…"

"Things the entire planet has been waiting quite some time to discover," Doyle added casually, " _Those_ advances…"

"You were told to leave Merrick alone."

Bodie stilled, felt Doyle freeze in just the same way, fist clutched around his heart.

"You knew."

"Of course we knew! Who do you think ordered it kept quiet?"

"Kuo said there were papers suppressed – scientists gagged," Doyle said, eyes wide, " _We_ did that?"

"If by _we_ you mean the government of this country, then _yes_ \- but certainly not off our own bat, not through _our_ choice…" He sounded almost bitter, Bodie thought, but what was he most bitter _about_?

"An _international_ decision then – and we all know what that means."

Bodie watched as the Minister stared at Doyle for a moment, face blank. Then he just said _"Yes."_

"It ends here," Doyle said, firmly.

"No."

"You could save _millions_ of lives!"

"And you think we'd all live happily ever after, do you?"

Doyle gazed stonily at him.

"Millions of people would live longer – into old age, which used to be sixty, seventy years, but what is it now? Eighty and ninety? And what happens to them? What's _already happening to them_?"

They lived alone. They forgot themselves, and their friends, and they were cared for by people they didn't know, who'd never known them.

"It doesn't have to be like that," Doyle retorted mutinously, "There…"

"But it _is_ like that!" The Minister gave up his pretence at calm, stood up and crossed over to the window, pulled back the curtains to look out into the darkness. "I'm sorry, they won't let you."

"They?" Bodie wondered out loud, knowing he meant the government, all the governments - and probably _not_ for humanitarian reasons. 

"Dead in the woods?" Doyle asked at the same time, and the Minister swung around again, a half-smile on his face.

"Nothing so crude. I'm afraid you were right the first time."

"Horse's Mouth?"

"If not them, then another. You've seen the dangers now – they can bring you down with just the wrong whispers in the right media ear, you know."

"It's been tried before."

"But never with such dedication."

Bodie struggled to keep his temper, listening to the Minister return everything Doyle threw at him. "We're near retirement, maybe it'd be worth it to us anyway," he suggested, and wickedly enjoyed the way it made even Doyle look at him in surprise. He changed the subject. "Kerri isn't Merrick's daughter, why'd she say she was?"

"Ah, that was a bit of a surprise to us, too."

"You mean a surprise that she's mad?" Doyle asked, and there was an edge to his voice that made Bodie move closer to the couch on which he sat, so that when he put his hand down on the fabric it brushed against Doyle's hair, the back of his neck. 

"I mean that she _is_ Merrick's daughter - bastard daughter, from long before he met his wife, but daughter nonetheless. He kept it quiet for years, only found out because he'd forgotten to deny her permission to find him or whatever it is they do now. She'd had some upset with a boyfriend, apparently."

"So he took advantage," Doyle said flatly.

"Is it really relevant?"

Maybe it wasn't, Bodie thought, though Doyle looked like he was about to hit someone.

"That he used an innocent girl to further his own ends? Yes, I think it's relevant."

"Can you really say you've never done the same?" The Minister's eyes narrowed as he stared at Doyle, a slicing knife of a hit that twisted and took its toll. Sophie was still in intensive care, after all, and Oliver Darrow was dead, and the years in CI5 stretched behind them like a graveyard.

" _Never with such dedication_ ," Bodie mocked, preferring Doyle when he was furious. "But you'll not keep him out of jail now."

"No," the Minister agreed, wandering back towards them, "Merrick's time is done, and he didn't manage to keep his own end up at all. Shame, that. But it won't change... things at BioR."

"We could release the code ourselves," Doyle tried, though he sounded tired, and Bodie knew he didn't believe it would ever happen.

"If you do that, CI5 will be shut down, for good. All our work here - all _your_ work will have ended in nothing. That's not from me, Ray, that's from... elsewhere."

"You..." Doyle began, but Bodie interrupted, spoke over him, voice firm and courteous.

"Thank you, Minister, for your time. We'll keep you informed regarding the Merrick case."

The Minister looked up, startled and then relieved as he realised that this time he was being _let off_ the hook. "Well then, I'll leave you gentlemen to... get some rest. I can't say _thank you_ , but... from what I've heard of him, George Cowley would have appreciated your work over the past few weeks."

Bodie saw him out, the big black car vanishing into the night, red lights amidst the yellow glow of houses, of streetlamps and traffic lights at the end of the road.

"I'm not sure that's a recommendation, you know," Doyle said, when he got back. He'd taken the Minister's place by the window, head bent, thumbs hooked in jeans pockets, staring out past their reflections into the night. 

For a moment Bodie was transported, years falling away, just another op gone wrong, another claim of _diplomatic immunity_ thwarting them, another villain jailed but thousands more out there, bigger, badder. A glass or two of whisky to sort them out, to see them to bed, to get them through the night and into another day, when it started all over again.

No. He pursed his lips, breathed in. This was different, this was now, and Doyle's stance might be the same but his hair was salt and pepper grey, he was Co-Director of CI5, and he lived in a house, lived together _with_ , Bodie.

"I'm not sure even Cowley could have done more, this time," Bodie said, stepping up behind him to wrap his arms around Doyle's waist, to tuck his face into the side of Doyle's neck and close his eyes, breathing him in. Shampoo, shower gel, _Doyle_. "But it'll get out eventually, you know, with or without us."

"Can't keep a good scientist down, you mean?" Doyle snorted, "I dunno about that, mate."

"There's other angles, _international_ angles, people. We're not out for the count by a long shot."

"Yeah..." They stood for a moment, warmth against warmth, the house breathing and creaking and sighing quietly around them. "D'you ever think," Doyle asked at last, and Bodie lifted his head and watched them in the window, watched Doyle close his eyes, felt his weight rest back, lean against him, just a little, "that sometimes it's really not worth it?"

"No, I bloody don't!"

Doyle's eyes opened at that, at Bodie's vehemence, met his gaze in the reflection. 

"They might have got away with it this time, they might get away with it next time, but not in the end. We got Merrick, we'll get the rest of it too. Eventually."

"Feels like the end's getting further away each time. I used to think we made a difference."

"We do." He believed that, he had to believe it. And Doyle did too. "Come on, let's go to bed."

"It's not nine yet!"

"So? I'm knackered, you're convalescing…"

Doyle nodded, thinking about how he wouldn't sleep, no doubt, thinking about all the people they hadn't saved.

Bodie gave him a shove to get him going anyway, watched him out the door, turned off the light behind them. 

 

**Chapter Twenty Three**

Doyle woke to a morning dark as night, fumbling to turn off the alarm, sniffing and burrowing closer to Bodie under the duvet. Bodie's arm was smooth against his face, Bodie's chest solid under his hand, he was warm, and comfortable, and… He let himself drift. The alarm would go off again if he fell asleep, and he couldn't think of any urgent appointments…

 _Bollocks_. The day before came rushing back to him, Merrick and Minister and Horse's Mouth and all. Sophie was in hospital, Darrow and several others were dead… He opened his eyes, stared into the dark for a moment, then rolled carefully out of bed and switched off the snooze alarm, reached for the bathrobe on the back of the door and pulled it on. There'd be paperwork on the Merrick case, and more of it than usual, making sure that every _i_ was carefully dotted, every _t_ meticulously crossed, and he wanted to check in with Kuo and he'd probably better find out what he could about where the Inquiry was up to, now that Merrick was in custody…

He washed quietly, padded downstairs to make tea and put on some toast. At least it was… what, Thursday? Two days until the weekend, and maybe he'd insist that they stayed properly at home for a change, did nothing but potter around and get the place straightened up – it felt like forever since they'd done that, he was surprised there was anything left in the freezer to toast. Or if the weather improved they could go off somewhere, take the bikes maybe…

He poured milk into Bodie's tea, gave it a stir, and then took it upstairs, switching on the overhead light without remorse. 

"Come on – you've had your lie in."

Bodie muttered something, peered briefly at him between duvet and pillow, then tucked his head away again.

"Bo- _die_ …"

There was a heaving of bedclothes, a protest of springs. 

"Isn't it about time you mellowed with age?"

"I have – I brought you a cup of tea."

"Not what I had in mind…" Bodie lunged suddenly, far too energetically for someone who'd been sound asleep until thirty seconds ago, and Doyle found himself tumbled down to the bed, hot, damp breath against his ear where Bodie kissed him noisily and with too much enthusiasm. He wanted to complain, to be stern so that they got up and off to work on time, but it _tickled_ more than anything, and he found himself giggling, caught a glimpse of Bodie grinning in delight and then felt fingers on his ribs, on the spot by his hip where he was most ticklish, and that was that, he was lost to feeling Bodie's skin against his own, to hearing Bodie laugh.

After a moment Bodie's hands stroked more firmly, coaxed a moan from him, and then a gasp, and then a need to feel Bodie's lips on his own, Bodie's body beneath him, himself _inside Bodie_. He slid away for a moment, reaching to the bedside cabinet, and when he moved back Bodie had pulled the duvet up again, so that they were cocooned in a dim warmth, a softness of feathers around their slide of skin. He nudged Bodie to turn over, kissed his way down his back, stroked him, let his tongue lick gently down until it pushed inside him, thrust here, and there, and twisted and licked again, made Bodie gasp in his turn. 

He couldn't wait any longer, barely long enough to squeeze out the lube, to apply it to himself, to Bodie, who wriggled underneath him, thrust into the mattress and said "Come _on_ , Ray!" 

There was nothing like it, the sight of Bodie there, _wanting_ him so badly, Doyle's cock paused, poised, and then entering him, so slowly… Except perhaps being entered _by_ Bodie, feeling Bodie deep inside _him_... He bit his lip to stop himself crying out, closed his eyes and began moving properly, their own rhythm, made perfect from years of dancing together just like this. Bodie's legs were long against his, Bodie's hips strong under his, his skin made to be kissed… he came deep inside him, wanting it to go on forever, that perfect moment of stillness in the world when it was _just them_ , but then Bodie was coming too, and they half rolled together so that Doyle could wrap his arms tightly around him, and they slept...

o0o

Someone was singing, a loud and slightly off-key rendition of _Sunshine Superman_ that soared above the electric hum of the shower. Doyle blinked his way awake, listened for a moment, then remembered where he was, and then, more importantly, _when_. He sat up in a rush.

Five to eight.

"Bodie!"

Steam rushed out at him when he opened the bathroom door, the room a fog of grey and Bodie looking innocently at him from the shower cubicle.

"What?"

He frowned, pulled open the door, and got Bodie out by squeezing in beside him and hogging the spray of warm water, which earned him a kiss and a stinging slap on his bum.

"God you're 'orrible when you're cheerful," he said, washing the important bits and turning off the water while Bodie was still towelling himself dry. "And 'urry up!" He strode through to the bedroom again, found a new towel in the cupboard, and then a suit and tie and all the other things that he didn't want to wear today.

"Nine to five," Bodie declared, when he finally arrived downstairs, taking the piece of toast Doyle held out for him, and letting himself be pushed out the door. "From now on we're on a work to rule - nine to five!"

Doyle looked at him over the top of the Triumph, then slid in behind the steering wheel.

"Well for today and tomorrow at least," Bodie said, getting in beside him. "And you can forget going in this weekend, we're _off duty_ \- you remember what that means?"

The way Doyle felt, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to go in again, but he nodded obediently as he drove, rolling his eyes as Bodie would expect. "Yes, mum."

"I'm gonna collect you tonight at five to five - no excuses."

"Yes, mum." He steered past a shiny silver people carrier that suddenly stopped and disgorged what seemed like a football team's-worth of small children. 

"And you can pull over at Daphne's on the way and I'll pick up a bacon butty."

"Don't push your luck..."

Bodie grinned at him then, and he grinned back. Fool... Still, he supposed he could get one of those fruit-yoghurt things they did, and a decent coffee...

In the end it was nearly ten past nine when they strolled in past John on security, his oldest boy having taken up freebasing, or running free or something, and stepped into the lift.

"Didn't we used to do that?" Bodie asked, absently pressing the button for five.

"What, run like buggery all over town? Yeah..."

Not any more though - the moment caught at him again, standing by the steps in BioR, trying to catch his breath. He felt Bodie's eyes on him, didn't look up.

"How are you feeling, Ray?" Salma asked as they passed her desk, holding out twin piles of mail. "Are you sure you should be here?"

"I'm not sure he should," Bodie replied, "Maybe he'll listen to you..."

Doyle frowned at them both, took his post, and wandered off to turn on his computer and make a start on the day. He might be over the hill, but he could still...

He read the first email, took a breath and let it out, then read it again.

_From: AJP@gov.uk_  
To: RDoyle@CI5.gov.uk  
Date: 27th January 2005  
Subject: Inquiry 

_Ray - inquiry into CI5 re Merrick has been postponed, pending results of his trial. This will be formally announced in the noon press release, but I thought you'd like to know._

_AJP._

_Minister of State_  
Home Office  
Queen Anne's Gate  
Westminster 

He was just about to push away from the desk, go and tell Bodie the good news - though no doubt he had his own email - when the phone rang. _Merry-go-round started_ , he thought, picking it up with a sigh.

_"Ray - you'd better come, they're taking all the papers..."_

"What? Peter, what's...?"

There was shouting at the other end, a rustling as if the phone was being covered, and he slammed down the receiver, didn't bother calling Bodie, but ran past Salma's desk and into his office, not bothering to knock, nearly sending young Matthews flying as he came out.

"Now," was all he said, and Bodie was by his side, all the way down to the labs, stairs taken two and three at a time. 

They arrived to chaos, to grey-suited agents pawing through desks and files, to Kuo pounding impotently on the wall beside the door as men and women walked in and out, with boxes and piles of papers.

"They're taking everything, Ray - fucking _everything_!"

Bodie stopped one of the agents. "What's this about?"

"Internal Security, sir," she flipped open an I.D., looked apologetic. "Orders from the Ministry, I'm afraid."

They were going through with it then, Doyle thought, wanted to join Kuo in battering something long and hard. He managed a deep breath instead, managed to turn and explain what had happened, in a low voice. Kuo shook his head, disappointed in the world, if no more disillusioned than he'd ever been. 

"Well beat them, Peter," Doyle said, glancing at Bodie, "Maybe not today, but one day..."

He stayed to watch, sending Bodie back up to monitor things elsewhere, to witness this part of the dying of the world. After a while it was obvious that IS were beginning to take advantage, and he put a stop to it, made sure that Kuo and Liu had access to any files that they could prove weren't connected to BioR, and then took himself back upstairs. 

He caught Benny coming out of the break room, bought him coffee and sounded him out about the future, about a life perhaps desk-bound and out of the field, found him less resistant than he'd expected.

"Comes to us all," he said, clapping Doyle on the shoulder when they parted, "Comes to us all."

And he supposed, somehow, it did. 

It had come to him.

"Phone call, Ray," Salma said, as he passed her desk, waving her handset at him for some reason, and Doyle nodded wearily, tramped into his office and picked up the receiver, the flashing line.

"Doyle."

"M-mr Doyle - it's ten-twelve.."

"Sophie!" 

"H-hello..." She sounded breathy, unsure, and very unlike the woman he remembered.

"How are you feeling?" How did he _think_ she was feeling?

"G-good. Bit cold. C-can't seem to get warm..."

He winced, where had that come from? "Well you..."

"S-sir, wanted to thank you, for finding me."

"Oliver did that," he said, feeling it all the way through his chest to his stomach.

"Y-you got me out. Th-thanks. Was wondering..." She took a breath. "M-merrick?"

"We've got him," he said, "You did well - I can't tell you how well."

"G-good. Th-thank you. W-wanted to know."

"We'll look in on you..."

"Th-thank you," she said again. "I'll be b-back as soon as I can..."

"Good," he said, biting the inside of his cheek. "Good. Look after yourself, ten-twelve..."

"Sir..." Her voice was replaced with a _brrrrr_ , and he sat looking at the receiver for a moment, so that that was how Bodie found him, as though he'd been lost somewhere in the nineteenth century, had only just made it to the twenty first.

"You talk into it," Bodie said helpfully, dropping a brown paper bag on the desk in front of him, and settling himself in the other chair, his feet up on Doyle's desk. "People talk back, sometimes."

"Berk." Doyle sniffed, dropped the phone back into its cradle and opened the bag. "Thought you didn't like Pret?"

"You like those..." Bodie waved a hand at Doyle's bagel, "...things." 

"That was Sophie."

Bodie paused, mid-bite, looked a question at him.

"She's planning her next case as we speak."

Bodie grinned. "She'll do," he said, and bit into his sandwich.

"I think I'd rather be her..."

"Yeah, well," Bodie spoke through his mouthful, "tough. You're not stacked enough. Grow bigger-"

"Mr Bodie!"

Doyle jumped, pesto mayonnaise dribbling over his fingers, and Bodie choked on his ham and tomato. Salma patted him gently on his back, tutted as Doyle tried to wipe green muck from his tie.

"I wanted to let you know there'd been a cancellation at the Centre this afternoon," she said. "KR Security had it booked out, so it will be empty if you'd like to finish early and refresh your training schedules - I know you missed last week, what with one thing and another... I thought you might fancy taking advantage..."

"Salma, you're a star," Bodie said, grinning widely at her. "It's about time he got rid of some of that yuppy flab... lattes and bagels - not very good for the figure you know..."

"Ray's figure's perfectly... Well... good." Salma's eyes widened for a moment, then she caught up with her composure again. "And this is for you too." She handed an envelope to Bodie. "You should take care of it tonight."

"Thanks, Sal," Doyle said, as Bodie rolled his eyes. "We'll be... I'll be on my phone then, if you want us this afternoon."

She smiled warmly at him, nodded to Bodie, and left the room, her mobile already ringing.

"So much for an afternoon off," Bodie said, slicing open the envelope with a finger. "You'd think..."

He fell quiet.

"What?"

His eyes skimmed lines and letters and...

" _What?_

"EX46APW747."

"What?" He was losing the plot...

"EX46APW747," Bodie repeated, then grinned suddenly. "E-number booking ticket thingie. She's got us two seats to Morocco, for tomorrow night."

"Salma has?"

"She probably used my company card," Bodie said realistically, "but yeah..."

"Honey and...?"

"Well I don't think she's booked _that_ , but... yeah." Bodie stood up, wandered across and locked the office door. "Wanna practice?"

"Aren't you supposed to be respectable and impotent?" Doyle asked, managing to spin his chair around so that Bodie's lunge missed him, was thwarted by the high leather back. "Slowing down, and..."

Bodie raised an eyebrow at him, feinted around one side of the chair, and then back around the other, so that they ended up on opposite sides of the desk. 

There was a knock at the door.

Bodie pulled a face, and Doyle grinned at him, walking backwards to the door just in case, _snicking_ it open and composing himself.

"Sir, there's movement down at the Franklin watch - Belle and Levitt are down there, they've asked for a response team and..."

Doyle half turned to look back at Bodie. They'd been wanting Franklin for months now, and for months the stakeout had been quiet as the grave, their only hope in the bizarrely coded text messages that flew back and forth between half a dozen suspects, everything pointing to a movement of guns, and lots of them. 

Bodie looked back at him, clear-eyed and amused. "You've been on that case for a while now, haven't you Abdi?"

"Sir..."

"Then pick yourself eight agents from S-team," Doyle confirmed, "and let the girls know who you've got. You'll coordinate from the Comms Room, Mary at the other end. Jax is on tonight, so he's Alpha."

Abdi smiled, paused in the doorway. "Thank you, sir, won't let you down..."

"I know," Doyle said, but he was talking to thin air. He leaned forward, rested his forehead on the door. "We _are_ getting old..."

"Nine to five," Bodie reminded him, "It's a work to rule. Problem with that?"

Doyle shook his head, smiling, heart strangely lighter, for all the world threw at them, day after week after month after day. "Come on, let's get down the Centre, watch you shoot some poor piece of paper to shreds," he said. "Give it until six, and then I've got some of that chocolate you like somewhere, and I fancy a quiet night in…"

 

_November 2009_


End file.
